By 
W.  B.  TRITES 


'  nili  ill 


!   ntiliii'   ! 


m 


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BARBARA    GWYNNE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


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BARBARA  GWYNNE 

(LIFE) 


BY 

W.  B.  TRITES 


NEW    YORK 

DUFFIELD   &  COMPANY 
1913 


Copyright,  191  i, 

BY 

W.  B.  TRITES 
Copyright,  1913. 

BY 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 


BARBARA    GWYNNE 


26S635 


BARBARA  GWYNNE 


Jerome  S.  McWade,  "  grocery  clerk,"  dominated 
the  little  shop.  In  and  out  among  his  patrons,  now 
after  onions,  now  after  starch,  he  darted  with  a  sure 
agility.  The  gaze  of  a  half-dozen  women  and  chil- 
dren followed  his  trained  movements,  and  like  a 
juggler  he  kept  afloat  in  the  air  before  him  eggs, 
lemons,  cabbages,  tins  of  tomatoes,  bars  of  soap. 

Tall,  robust  and  pale,  he  smiled  eternally.  A 
pencil  was  stuck  behind  his  ear,  and  a  white  apron. 
Very  smooth  and  taut  about  the  loins,  enveloped  him 
from  breast  to  knee.  His  blue  eyes  were  quick  and 
sharp.  His  Roman  features,  the  aquiline  nose,  firm 
mouth,  square  chin,  gave  him  a  showy  comeliness. 
He  needed  shaving  badly,  and  he  bore  himself  with 
a  very  jaunty  air. 
*    The  June  morning  was  awful  in  its  sultry  heat, 

7 


Barbara  Gwynne 

but  Jerome  S.  McWade,  tearing  about  with  the  skill 
and  speed  of  an  acrobat  on  a  cramped  stage,  was 
happy.  Work  made  him  happy  always.  Work 
meant  to  him,  however,  only  over-reaching,  only 
legal  theft.  And  the  sincere  happiness  that  radiated 
from  his  smile,  being  mistaken  by  every  one  for  un- 
selfish good-will,  helped  him  to  persuade  patron 
after  patron  to  reject  the  better  articles  they  really 
wanted,  and  to  buy  instead  the  worse  ones  on  which 
he  got  a  good  commission. 

There  came  a  lull  in  trade  at  last,  and  Jerome 
wiped  his  wet  brow  with  his  apron,  took  a  chew  of 
tobacco,  and  resumed  his  study  of  the  cash  register, 
a  new  contrivance  that  he  believed  could  be  out- 
witted. 

"  Always  on  the  make,  Jerome !  " 

He  abandoned  hurriedly  the  bright  machine. 

"  Always  on  the  make,"  repeated  Annie  Johnson. 
A  smile,  parting  her  shrunken  lips,  revealed  her 
large  false  teeth.  "  Give  me  a  box  of  Thekla  in- 
sect powder." 

Foisting  on  her  the  spurious  Thackara  powder, 
he  explained  rather  anxiously  to  the  gossip : 

"  The  cash  register  people  offer  a  reward  to  any- 
body that  can  beat  their  machine.  I  was  just  look- 
ing the  works  over,  Mrs.  Johnson ;  that  was  all." 

"  Now,  Jerome !  " 

"  That  was  all— honest !  " 
8 


Barbara  Gwynne 

They  laughed  enigmatically.  Then,  about  to  con- 
fer a  favour,  the  gossip,  her  clenched  fists  on  her 
hips,  regarded  the  young  man  with  shrewd  approval. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  latest  about  Barbara 
Gwynne,  Jerome  ?  " 

His  smile  vanished,  a  worried  look  succeeded  it. 
"  No  "  he  muttered. 

"  You  knew  she  went  to  the  theatre  with  young 
Chew  last  night?" 

He  moistened  his  dry  lips.     "Yes?" 

"  Well,  they  drove  home  through  the  park  in  a 
closed  cab ! " 

"iMaybe,"  he  said,  "they  missed  the  train." 

"  Of  course  they'll  say  they  missed  the  train," 
sniffed  Annie  Johnson.  "  If  anybody'U  believe 
them!" 

"  I'll  believe  them !  "  cried  Jerome.  "  You  ought 
to  believe  them,  too."  And  suddenly  his  flat,  nasal 
voice  rose  high  in  shrill  appeal.  "Just  look  back 
at  yourself  now.  Just  look  back  at  yourself  when 
you  were  a  girl  of  eighteen,  Mrs.  Johnson.  Maybe 
you  did  a  lot  of  reckless  things  then,  too.  I'll  bet 
you  did,  a  pretty  girl  like  you  were !  But  was  there 
any  harm  in  it  ?    Was  there  now  ?  " 

His  falsetto  whine  amazed  the  woman. 

"  Why,  Jerome,  you  ain't  in  love  with  her,  are 
you?" 

"  Me  in  love  with  her !  " 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  for  a  long  time  after  Annie  Johnson's  de- 
parture Jerome  S.  McWade  was  not  himself.  He 
served  his  patrons  slowly  and  feebly,  like  a  very  old 
man;  a  frown  wrinkled  his  brow;  when  alone  he 
gazed  out  of  the  window  sadly. 

The  Rev.  George  Harper,  dropping  in  for  six 
yards  of  clothes-line,  was  startled  by  his  languor. 

"Is  it  the  heat,  Brother  McWade?" 

"  Oh,  no." 

And  he  shook  off  his  gloom,  he  tied  up  the 
clothes-line  with  almost  magical  speed  and  skill. 
"And  what  else.  Dr.  Harper?" 

"  Nothing  else,  I  thank  you.  Brother  McWade." 

Mr.  Harper  strode  to  the  door,  his  loose,  thin 
garments  of  black  alpaca  shimmering  and  flut- 
tering. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  said,  as  he  put  up  his  sun- 
shade, "  you  must  join  our  whistling  league." 

"Whistling  league?" 

Mr.  Harper's  large  mouth  opened  wide,  emitting 
a  cultivated  and  sonorous  laugh.  "  We  meet  in  the 
church  parlour  at  seven-thirty  this  evening.  Don't 
fail  us,  brother." 

"  But " 

"  Not  a  word  of  explanation  until  then !  " 

Another  sonorous  laugh,  and  Mr.  Harper  ven- 
tured forth  into  the  terrible  sunshine  of  Green  Lane. 
With  cautious  steps  he  ascended  the  hill.    His  long, 

lO 


Barbara   Gwynne 


clean-shaven  upper  lip  looked  very  white  by  con- 
trast with  his  curly  black  beard.  His  raiment  flut- 
tered about  him,  lustrous  as  silk.  His  alpaca 
trousers  were  so  flimsy  that  through  them,  in  cer- 
tain strong  lights,  the  leg  itself  was  visible. 

Suddenly  Mr.  Harper  started,  smiled,  and  re- 
turned to  the  shop. 

"Brother  McWade!" 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"  I  have  been  thinking — if  you  would  care  to 
mention  our  whistling  league  to  the  editor — ^not,  be 
it  understood,  as  coming  direct  from  me " 

"  I'll  let  him  know,"  said  Jerome.  "  It  will  be  a 
fine  ad.  for  Ebenezer." 

"  I  thank  you." 

Alone  once  more,  the  grocery  clerk  sighed  heavily. 
He  took  another  chew  of  tobacco.  Then  his  melan- 
choly eye,  chancing  upon  the  cash  register,  lit  up 
again  with  interest.  Jerome,  deep  in  little  cogs, 
started  at  Mrs.  Woodford's  entrance. 

"Good-morning.    Have  you  got  any  beeswax?" 

"  Good-morning.     Yes,  ma'am.     Certainly." 

And  he  selected  a  cake  of  that  brand  of  beeswax 
which  owed  least  to  the  bee. 

"  I  want  two  ounces,  please,"  said  Mrs.  Woodford. 
"  I  guess  you  don't  carry  rosewater  and  almond 
oil?" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  we  don't  stock  them."  He  bent 
II 


Barbara  Gwynne 


over  the  counter  chivalrously.  "  But  we  can  get 
them  for  you?"  he  cooed. 

"  Oh,  it's  not  worth  while,"  said  Mrs.  Woodford. 
"  It's  just  a  cream  I'm  making." 

"A  cream?" 

She  flushed.  She  was  a  woman  of  thirty-five. 
Her  figure  was  beautiful,  and  with  daring  coquetry 
the  cheap  gown  revealed  all  her  figure's  gracious 
lines.  But  there  was  that  in  her  face — a  certain 
heavy  and  stiff  quality,  a  sexless  quality — which 
doomed  her  to  be  undesirable  to  men. 

"What  kind  of  a  cream?"  the  grocery  clerk 
persisted. 

"  A  massage  cream.  A  skin  food.  It's  the  latest 
thing.    Haven't  you  seen  it  advertised  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  have.  But  isn't  the  recipe  a 
secret  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  friend,"  Mrs.  Woodford  answered, 
"  in  the  Oriental  Cream  place.  She  told  me  how  to 
make  it." 

"How  is  it  done?" 

His  persistence  vexed  her;  nevertheless  she  said 
good-humouredly : 

"  You  take  two  ounces  of  beeswax,  four  ounces 
of  almond  oil,  and  four  ounces  of  rosewater;  you 
melt  the  wax  in  the  oil,  and  then  you  lift  your  pot 
off  the  fire  and  stir  in  the  rosewater  gently.  That's 
all.    It's  ever  so  much  cheaper  to  make  than  to  buy." 

12 


Barbara  Gwynne 


"  The  idea ! ''  said  Jerome.  He  had  listened  with 
an  intent  frown,  engraving  the  recipe  upon  his  mem- 
ory. Sure  now  that  it  was  well  etched  in,  he  re- 
sumed his  professional  glitter.  "Anything  else 
to-day,  Mrs.  Woodford?" 

"  Half  a  dozen  eggs,  please." 

"McWade  new-laids?" 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  Just  store  eggs  this 
time." 

After  her  departure  he  examined  his  stock  of  Mc- 
Wade eggs  with  grave  care,  peering  through  them 
towards  the  light,  and  in  far  too  many  cases  shak- 
ing his  head  and  muttering,  "Damn  that  Bill 
Stroud."  Then  he  resumed  his  study  of  the  cash 
register. 

Though  the  shop  remained  open  until  ten,  an 
evening  off  was  never  denied  Jerome.  He  took  this 
evening  off,  and  having  finished  his  supper  of  cold 
soup-meat,  fried  potatoes,  stewed  prunes  and  cup- 
cake, washed  down  with  a  pint  of  boiling  cafe-au- 
lait,  he  borrowed  a  small  oil-stove  from  the  "  hired 
girl  "  and  retreated  to  his  room. 

In  the  still  twilight  his  room  was  stifling.  He 
threw  off  his  outer  garments,  and  in  undershirt  and 
drawers  began  to  trot  softly  in  his  stocking  feet 
about  the  little  chamber. 

He  untied  a  number  of  packages.  The  first  was 
a  jar  of  Oriental  Cream.     He  studied  the  cream 

13 


Barbara  Gwynne 

closely.  He  smelt  it.  He  touched  it  with  his  fore- 
finger. 

"  Fat  and  cologne,"  he  said. 

The  other  packages  contained  the  ingredients  of 
Oriental  Cream  as  Mrs.  Woodford  had  recounted 
them  to  him.  He  lighted  the  oil-stove,  and,  follow- 
ing Mrs.  Woodford's  directions,  he  put  the  beeswax 
and  the  almond  oil  in  a  tin  pot  on  the  fire. 

Slowly  the  white  cake  of  wax  melted  above  the 
flame,  melted  and  mingled  with  the  almond  oil  in 
a  clear,  amber-coloured  fluid. 

"  So  far  so  good,"  said  Jerome. 

And  he  extinguished  the  fire,  set  the  tin  pot  on 
his  dressing-table,  and  emptied  into  it  the  vial  of 
rosewater. 

"Gee!" 

It  was  like  magic.  The  rosewater,  as  it  fell  into 
the  hot  mixture  of  oil  and  wax,  formed  little  white 
curls,  little  white  worms,  little  white  balls ;  and  in  a 
flash  these  wriggling  shapes  all  united  in  one  white 
mass — a  mass  surrounded  by  a  fluid  that  had  now 
somehow  lost  its  amber  hue,  that  had  now  somehow 
diminished,  too,  by  seventy  or  eighty  per  cent.  The 
dish  before  him  resembled  a  dumpling  in  a  thin, 
scant  sauce. 

"Hell!" 

He  snatched  his  penknife,  opened  it,  and  began  to 
stir  vigorously  with  the  blade.     But  the  colourless 

14 


Barbara  Gwynne 

sauce  refused  to  combine  with  the  hard  white  dump- 
ling. Still  he  stirred  on.  The  summer  night  closed 
round  him.  Sweat  dripped  into  his  eyes.  He  lit  the 
gas,  and  drawing  down  the  blind  with  one  hand, 
stirred  with  the  other.  In  vain.  The  liquid  and  the 
solid  refused  absolutely  to  unite  in  a  smooth  cream, 
and  the  young  man  in  his  disappointment  and  rage 
lifted  up  the  pot  to  hurl  it  across  the  room.  Pru- 
dence, however,  restrained  him,  and,  dressing  again, 
he  hastened  out. 

Up  Green  Lane  he  strode  in  the  soft  June  night. 
A  faint  air  stirred  the  maple  leaves.  The  sky  was 
a  glancing  splendour  of  clear  stars. 

Jerome,  as  he  mopped  continually  his  face  and 
hands  and  neck,  advanced  between  two  parallel  lines 
of  cheap  brick  houses.  Each  brick  house  had  a  tiny 
flight  of  white  marble  steps  before  its  narrow  door, 
and  on  each  flight  of  steps  a  girl  and  a  lad  sat  side 
by  side.  To  left  and  right  in  his  progress  he  saluted 
that  host  of  amorists  politely.  He  walked  amid  their 
soft  laughter,  amid  the  murmur  of  their  young 
voices,  as  in  a  very  bath  of  love. 

The  west  class-room  of  Ebenezer  was  brilliantly 
illuminated,  and  forth  from  the  open  windows 
poured  the  strange,  shrill  sound  of  a  multitude 
of  persons  whistling  "  Beulah  Land  "  together  with 
all  their  might.  Jerome  smiled,  but  kept  on  his 
way. 

15 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Seated  on  her  doorstep,  Mrs.  Woodford  looked 
up  in  surprise  when  he  stopped  before  her,  and  she 
rose  hurriedly. 

"  Won't  you  come  in,  Jerome  ?  " 

"  No ;  I'll  just  stand  here  a  minute." 

"  Isn't  it  hot?  "  she  sighed.  "  You  might  as  well 
come  in." 

Her  voice  was  sweet  and  tremulous.  She  was 
almost  pretty  in  the  starlight.  Her  white  dress 
clung  to  her;  the  bodice,  cut  a  little  low,  revealed 
her  throat's  soft  beauty.  But  he  regarded  her  with 
accusing  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  that  Oriental 
Cream." 

"Oh."  Mrs.  Woodford's  voice  changed.  "Well, 
what  about  it  ?  " 

"  You  didn't  tell  me  how  to  make  it  right." 

"Of  course  I  did.  Why  are  you  so  interested  in 
it,  anyway  ?  " 

"  I  tried  to  make  it  according  to  your  recipe,  and 
it  was  no  good  at  all." 

"  But  what  interest " 

"  No  good  at  all,"  he  repeated.  "  Half  water  and 
half  wax."  His  voice  rose  in  anger.  "  It  wouldn't 
mix!" 

She  interrogated  him.  She  soon  discovered  the 
mistake  he  had  made.  And  she  explained  good- 
humouredly  that  his  vial  of  rosewater  should  have 

i6 


Barbara  Gwynne 

been  added  very  slowly,  drop  by  drop,  to  the  hot 
wax  and  oil;  she  explained  that,  poured  in  all  at 
once,  it  had  caused  too  sudden  a  hardening  of  the 
compound. 

Then  she  brought  out  a  flagon  of  cream  that  she 
had  made  herself  in  the  afternoon.  He  touched  and 
smelt  it;  he  pronounced  it  a  success. 

"  But  you  didn't  get  all  this,"  he  said,  "  out  of 
ten  ounces  of  raw  material  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did." 

"  And  one  little  jar  of  Oriental  Cream  costs  a 
dollar !    There  must  be  a  dozen  jars  here." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  there  must." 

"  Well,  this  beats  chicken-farming." 

In  his  excitement  he  rubbed  the  bristles  on  cheek 
and  chin.  The  bristles  gave  forth  a  harsh,  rasping 
sound,  as  of  the  wind  in  withered  leaves. 

"  What  sound  was  that  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Woodford, 
startled. 

He  pretended  not  to  hear  her.  "  There's  money 
in  this,"  he  said. 

"  Is  there  ?  "  she  returned  indifferently. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  dollar,"  he  said,  "  if  you'll  make 
me  a  hundred  jars  of  this  cream." 

She  looked  interested,  pleased,  for  she  was  very 
poor.    "  All  right,  thanks,"  she  agreed. 

And  now  a  busy  and  exciting  week  ensued  for  the 
young  man.    He  believed  that  his  chance,  so  long 

17 


Barbara  Gwynne 

awaited,  his  chance  to  launch  out  and  grow  rich, 
was  at  last  come.  To  be  sure,  he  had  often  be- 
lieved that  his  chance  was  come  before.  Neverthe- 
less, with  religious  zeal,  he  set  to  work. 

He  bought  a  hundred  jars  of  white  porcelain  and 
a  hundred  labels  inscribed  "  Zenobia  Massage 
Cream,"  and  he  pasted  the  labels  on  the  jars  one 
evening  in  his  room.  He  bought  twenty  ounces  of 
highly  adulterated  beeswax  and  forty  ounces  each 
of  highly  adulterated  almond  oil  and  rosewater,  and 
Mrs.  Woodford  made  him  a  large  pail  of  Zenobia 
Cream.  He  inserted  a  very  black  advertisement, 
enclosed  in  a  very  black  border,  in  the  local  paper, 
and  this  advertisement,  thanks  to  its  extreme  black- 
ness, stood  out  splendidly;  it  sold  in  a  week  the 
hundred  jars  at  fifty  cents  a  jar. 

The  total  cost  of  each  jar  was  nine  cents,  the 
chemists  paid  thirty-five  cents;  profit,  twenty-six 
cents. 

Twenty-six  dollars  profit  in  one  week! 

"  This  beats  chicken- farming,"  cried  Jerome. 

And  he  set  down  his  wheelbarrow  at  Mrs.  Wood- 
ford's door.  He  began  to  unload  beeswax,  almond 
oil  and  rosewater  in  really  alarming  quantities. 


l8 


n 


Like  a  battlefield  Cinnaminson  resounded  all  night 
long  with  fire-crackers.  At  dawn,  fatigued  at  last, 
the  patriots  in  the  saloons  put  out  their  punk  and 
staggered  home;  but  promptly  at  dawn  the  little 
boys  of  Cinnaminson,  leaping  from  their  beds,  re- 
newed the  hideous  hubbub.  And  surgeons  in  white, 
just  as  on  a  battlefield,  sped  continually  hither  and 
yon  to  minister  to  hands  blown  off,  to  eyes  burnt 
out.    It  was  the  Fourth. 

Jerome  S.  McWade,  paler  than  usual,  for  he  had 
not  slept,  rose  early. 

With  a  dismal  yawn  he  strode  in  his  immense 
nightshirt  to  the  window.  Casey's  bartender  was 
sweeping  from  the  tavern  sidewalk  heaps  of  fluffy 
scarlet  stuff,  the  debris  of  innumerable  cannon- 
crackers.  Jerome  had  heard  the  report  of  all  those 
crackers,  of  all  without  exception.  But  he  would 
hardly  have  been  able  to  sleep  anyway  on  account 
of  the  heat.  Even  now,  now  in  the  blue  dawn,  the 
air  was  stale.  His  limbs  and  body  under  the  long 
gown  were  dripping  even  now. 

19 


Barbara   Gwynne 

He  passed  a  wet  towel  over  his  jaded  flesh,  and 
set  about  the  careful  toilet  demanded  by  the  day. 

Lifting  his  mattress,  he  drew  from  beneath  it  the 
trousers  that  his  weight  night  after  night  had  ad- 
mirably creased.  He  polished  his  shoes  with  a 
patent  liquid  blacking  of  which  he  held  the  local 
agency.  He  took  up  his  soiled  rubber  collar  and 
soiled  rubber  cuffs — he  was  the  Cinnaminson  rep- 
resentative of  a  rubber  novelty  firm — and  dipping 
an  old  toothbrush  in  water,  with  a  few  strokes  he 
restored  to  the  artificial  linen  all  its  snowy  efful- 
gence.   Then  he  dressed  rapidly. 

He  dressed  rapidly  in  a  blue  coat,  a  pink  shirt, 
and  black  and  white  check  trousers  sustained — he 
wore  no  waistcoat — ^by  both  belt  and  braces.  So 
attired,  he  regarded  himself  in  the  glass  with  pleas- 
ure. A  small  hat  of  black  straw  slanted  jauntily 
over  his  left  temple.  A  shave,  perhaps.  .  .  The 
two  days'  beard  rustled  as  he  touched  it  thought- 
fully, and  the  young  men  hurried  down  to  break- 
fast. 

Long  before  seven,  the  hour  the  Sunday  school 
parades  were  to  begin,  the  Main  Street's  two  side- 
walks were  choked  with  the  young  fathers  and 
mothers  of  Cinnaminson,  craning  their  necks,  stand- 
ing on  tiptoe,  smiling  with  foolish  delight  in  the 
thought  that  they  would  soon  see  their  little  sons 
and  daughters  march  by. 

20 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  green  hillside  was  bathed  in  morning  sun- 
shine, and  down  the  hillside  from  the  hilltop 
churches,  by  this  lane  and  by  that,  the  seven  pa- 
rades of  white-clad  children  at  last  moved  slowly 
riverward.  The  blare  of  their  bands  sounded  faint 
and  clear  below.  Banners  waved.  Brass  glinted 
in  the  sun.  Those  seven  white  processions  in  their 
winding  descent  resembled  a  herd  of  dragonlike 
monsters  crawling  down  green  slopes  in  fairyland. 

Amid  hurrahs  the  Catholic  parade  entered  the 
Main  Street.  It  marched  between  two  low  walls 
of  people,  between  two  high  walls  of  bunting-cov- 
ered house-fronts.  The  bunting  billowed,  the  peo- 
ple cheered,  and  the  Catholic  parade  was  deemed 
the  finest  that  Cinnaminson  had  ever  seen. 

Its  marshals,  got  up  as  Lafayettes,  Washingtons 
and  Uncle  Sams,  rode  lumbering  steeds  that  all  the 
week  they  drove  to  carts  or  drays.  Its  band  wore 
the  feathers,  paint  and  fringed  buckskin  of  Indian 
chiefs.  And  the  midsummer  sun  beat  on  the 
parade  fiercely,  revealing  without  pity  the  patches 
and  stains  on  faded  cotton  velvet,  and  the  lines  of 
sweat  crawling  down  powdered  faces. 

But  the  hot  sun  could  detract  nothing  from  the 
charm  of  the  children,  the  mile  of  children,  march- 
ing gravely,  two  by  two,  to  patriotic  music.  The 
little  girls  were  in  white,  they  carried  flags  and 
banners,  and  they  wore  on  the  hip  a  bright  tincup 

21 


Barbara  Gwynne 

hung  from  a  red,  white  and  blue  ribbon.  The  Ht- 
tle  boys  had  tincups,  too ;  many  bore  toy  guns  and 
swords ;  tiny  epaulettes  and  plumes  were  to  be  seen. 

Jerome  S.  McWade,  bowing  to  left  and  right,  rode 
at  the  head  of  Ebenezer's  parade  on  Dapple,  the  tre- 
mendous bay  mare  that  drew  his  employer's  market 
wagon.  Dapple  had  a  collar  of  laurel  about  her 
thick  neck.  Her  tail  and  mane  were  plaited  with  nar- 
row red,  white  and  blue  ribbon  in  many  infinitesimal 
plaits.  She  danced  and  curvetted  to  the  music,  and 
from  the  marshal's  baton  in  her  rider's  hand  long 
streamers  of  red,  white  and  blue  flowed  out  upon 
the  air.  A  superb  picture.  .  .  But  Jerome's  left 
trouser  kept  slipping  up.  Up  and  up  it  slipped,  al- 
most to  the  knee.  It  exposed  his  sock,  a  glimpse  of 
pale,  plump,  hairy  leg,  a  patent  garter  of  which  he 
was  the  agent.  Suddenly  aware  of  this  deplorable 
accident,  the  young  man  with  a  frown  rose  in  the 
stirrups  and  pushed  the  trouser  hastily  down.  Then 
from  his  high  seat  he  resumed  his  gallant  bows  and 
smiles,  and  the  trouser  resumed  its  stealthy  upward 
way. 

The  Ebenezer  parade  crossed  Green  Lane  Bridge 
and  toiled  in  sun  and  dust  out  the  River  Road  to 
Jones's  Woods.  A  young  woman  was  overcome  by 
the  heat  near  the  paper  mill;  they  carried  her, 
white  and  rigid,  into  a  cottage.  .  .  Jones's  Woods 
at  last.    How  cool  and  green  under  the  trees  after 

22 


Barbara  Gwynne 

the  long,  hot  march!  The  children,  bursting  from 
the  ranks,  ran  to  and  fro  with  shrill  whoops. 

Scattered  through  the  wood  were  benches  of  new 
pine,  one  for  each  class.  The  classes  took  their  al- 
lotted benches,  the  teachers  with  lemonade  buckets 
and  sandwich  baskets  descended  to  the  magazine,  and 
side  by  side  the  pupils  awaited  the  first  of  the  day's 
five  meals.  But  in  the  magazine,  a  square,  unroofed 
enclosure  in  the  shade  of  three  oaks,  the  purveyors, 
slicing  great  hams,  opening  rolls,  and  stirring  wash- 
tubs  of  lemonade,  were  already  far  behindhand. 

Jerome,  in  pink  shirtsleeves,  stood  at  the  maga- 
zine counter  of  rough  pine,  and  from  him  a  long 
line  of  teachers  with  buckets  and  baskets  extended 
far  back  into  the  wood.  On  his  right  was  a  sand- 
wich barrel,  on  his  left  a  lemonade  tub.  His  bare 
forearms  were  as  white  as  a  woman's  and  as  mus- 
cular as  a  blacksmith's. 

"Jerome,"  said  Annie  Johnson,  as  he  filled  her 
bucket  with  lemonade,  "  Barbara  Gwynne  and  Chew 
were  at  Island  Park  last  night." 

"Were   they?" 

"  Barbara  was  drinking." 

"I  don't  believe  it." 

He  did  not  believe  it,  but  his  hands,  laden  with 
sandwiches,  shook.   .    . 

The  first  meal  over  at  last,  the  little  boys  rushed 
from  the  cool  wood  out  into  the  blazing  meadow  to 

23 


Barbara  Gwynne 

play  ball.  Under  the  trees  the  little  girls  strolled 
arm  in  arm.  The  teachers,  seated  on  the  benches 
of  pale,  sweet-smelling  pine,  conversed  quietly.  And 
the  urchins  of  the  infant  class,  the  children  of  five 
or  six  years,  were  everywhere,  stumbling  busily, 
gravely,  down  vast  green  forest  vistas,  trudging 
shoulder  deep,  like  gnomes,  among  the  ferns. 

So  the  morning  passed.  There  was  never  much 
excitement  in  the  morning. 

But  in  the  afternoon  the  wood  filled  with  the 
older  members  of  Ebenezer,  and  by  means  of  rough 
games  and  music  the  new-comers  built  up  gradually 
a  spirit  of  feverish  gaiety  in  the  grove.  A  spirit  of 
feverish  and  unwholesome  gaiety,  growing  and 
growing,  becoming  finally  a  delirium  wherein  these 
middle-aged  persons  would  manifest  in  strange  and 
ugly  ways  a  thwarted  sexual  excitement. 

In  the  magazine  Jerome,  now  flourishing  a  knife 
a  yard  long,  sliced  Dutch  cake  with  wonderful  ac- 
curacy and  speed.  But  suddenly,  like  a  hunting 
dog,  he  stood  motionless,  passionately  absorbed  in 
something  far  off. 

A  high  cart,  red  and  glittering,  had  swung  into 
the  wood.  It  was  driven  by  a  young  man  in  white 
flannels,  beside  whom,  in  a  muslin  frock,  sat  a  girl 
of  singular  beauty. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Barbara.  How  are  you,  Mr. 
Chew?" 

24 


Barbara   Gwynne 

The  high  red  cart  halted  near  the  magazine.  The 
tiny  groom  skipped  to  the  grey's  tossing  head. 
Elisha  Chew,  3rd,  placed  his  long-lashed  whip 
slowly  in  its  socket;  and,  as  he  threw  the  fawn- 
coloured  apron  from  his  knees,  he  surveyed  with 
calm  eyes  the  gay  and  crowded  wood. 

"  Good-afternoon,  Barbara.  Good-afternoon,  Mr. 
Chew." 

Chew  nodded.  His  nod  was  an  insult.  But  the 
beautiful  girl  beside  him  smiled  her  radiant  smile. 

She  was  so  beautiful  that  all  men's  eyes  bright- 
ened to  behold  her.  She  was  so  beautiful  that  in 
her  presence  all  men's  faces  became  a  little  nobler. 
Her  beauty,  like  divine  music,  caressed  and  forti- 
fied the  soul. 

And  Jerome,  hurriedly  slipping  on  his  rubber 
cuffs,  went  to  her  as  the  steel  goes  to  the  magnet. 

''  I  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming,"  he  said. 

"  Mr.  Chew  drove  me  over,"  the  young  girl 
answered. 

She  put  out  her  slim  foot  in  its  white  shoe;  he 
had  a  confused  glimpse  of  white  silk  hose,  of  thin 
ankles,  and  Barbara  descended  as  nimbly  as  a  boy 
from  her  high  seat. 

"  Oh,  we're  only  staying  an  hour  or  so." 

Chew,  as  he  spoke,  allowed  his  gaze  to  linger  on 
Jerome's  toilet,  allowed  a  sneer  to  curl  his  lip. 
But  the  sneer  was  wasted  on  Jerome.     Jerome's 

25 


Barbara  Gwynne 


eyes,  bright  and  wistful,  saw  Barbara  Gwynne  alone. 

"  Did  you  get  that  cream  I  sent  you,  Barbara  ?  '* 
he  asked  gently. 

"  Oh,  yes,  thanks." 

"What  cream  was  that?"  Chew  inquired. 

Deaf  to  the  question,  oblivious  of  Chew's  very 
presence,  he  began  to  praise  his  Zenobia  Cream 
volubly.  The  young  girl  had  to  interrupt  him  to 
answer  her  companion. 

"Jerome  has  given  me,"  she  said,  "  a  dozen  jars 
of  his  new  skin  food.  It's  going  to  make  him  rich, 
you  know." 

"  That's  what  it  is.  It  pays  me  double  my  sal- 
ary in  the  shop  already.    I  tell  you " 

He  boasted  on  interminably,  beside  himself  with 
happiness,  and  Elisha  Chew,  3rd,  American  aristo- 
crat and  millionaire,  regarded  him  with  a  sneer  so 
icy,  so  contemptuous,  that  he  would  assuredly  have 
been  cut  to  the  heart  had  he  perceived  it.  But  he 
perceived  nothing  save  Barbara ;  and  as  he  talked  on 
and  on  to  Barbara — talked  of  his  Zenobia  Cream,  his 
chicken  farm,  his  patent  blacking — he  edged  in  quite 
unconsciously  between  Chew  and  her.  Uncon- 
sciously shouldering  Chew  aside,  he  usurped  his 
place.  And  as  he  stood  in  Chew's  place,  laughing 
and  talking,  his  broad  back  like  a  wall  hid  Barbara 
from  Chew's  sight. 

The  band  began  noisily  and  unevenly  to  blare 
26 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  and  Jerome  set  his 
palm  beneath  the  young  girl's  elbow. 

"We'll  go  further  off,"  he  said.  "You  can't 
hear  yourself  think  here." 

Clasping  her  elbow  courteously,  he  led  her  up  the 
knoll.  The  next  moment,  however,  he  stopped  and 
turned.     He  had  forgotten  Chew. 

"  Come  on,  Mr.   Chew !  "  he  cried. 

Barbara  looked  back.  Chew,  toiling  on  behind, 
glared  up  at  them  in  haughty  and  contemptuous 
silence.  She  made  for  his  benefit  a  grimace  of 
amused  disdain  towards  Jerome.  But  there  was 
mischief  in  her  violet  eyes.  If  Jerome  amused  her, 
perhaps  Chew  amused  her  too. 

From  the  top  of  the  knoll  they  saw  the  Rev. 
George  Harper  rushing  about  below. 

"  He  is  getting  his  whistling  league  together," 
said  the  grocery  clerk. 

Mr.  Harper,  in  fact,  had  begun  to  collect  the 
league  immediately  on  perceiving  the  editor  of  the 
Cinnaminson  Scimitar  among  the  afternoon  ar- 
rivals. With  theatrical  gaiety  he  hurried  from 
group  to  group.  His  diaphanous  alpaca  raiment 
flapped.  His  large  mouth  opened  wide  to  emit  his 
hollow  laugh.  His  bright  black  eye  shot  glance 
after  glance  towards  the  editor. 

"  What  is  this  whistling  league  ?  "  said  Chew. 

"  Here  is  the  idea,"  Jerome  explained.  "  A  lot  of 
27 


Barbara  Gwynne 


promiscuous  whistling  goes  on,  but  it  does  no  good, 
because  only  dance  tunes  and  so  forth  are  whistled. 
Well,  the  whistling  league  is  to  teach  us  all  to 
whistle  hymns.  We  are  to  whistle  hymns  in  the 
street,  before  saloons,  everywhere.  These  hymns, 
Mr.  Harper  thinks,  will  bring  souls  to  God." 

"Mr.  Harper  is  a  fool,"  Chew  scoffed. 

"  He  gets  his  name  in  the  paper,"  said  the  young 
girl,  with  a  knowing  smile 

The  league  burst  into  "  Rock  of  Ages." 

"  I  thought  of  going  to  Island  Park  last  night," 
said  Jerome. 

"  Why,  we  were  there,"  cried  Barbara.  "  The 
music  and  the  fireworks  were  lovely." 

"  There's  a  lot  of  drinking  goes  on  there,  I 
understand." 

She  laughed.  "  I  had  a  glass  of  wine  myself, 
Jerome." 

He  fell  into  profound  meditation,  and  Chew, 
grasping  the  opportunity,  came  from  behind  his 
broad  back  and  said  to  Barbara  significantly  : 

"  Shall  we  move  on  ?  " 

But  Jerome  moved  on  with  them,  still  medi- 
tating, through  the  gay  wood. 

"  Lots  of  people  drink,"  he  finally  announced. 
"  Your  mother,  now,  Mr.  Chew  ...  a  glass  of 
claret,  eh.   .    ." 

He  hesitated,  fearing  to  offend. 
28 


Barbara   Gwynne 

Chew  sneered.     "  Every  one  drinks  at  table." 

Jerome  became  himself  again  at  once.  In  his 
high  spirits  he  unconsciously  shut  Chew  off  from 
Barbara  as  befon::  and  at  the  least  obstruction  or 
difficulty — a  pebb)::  in  the  path,  an  orange  peel  to 
circle — his  palm  beneath  the  young  girl's  elbow 
sustained  her  with  the  finest  Cinnaminson  gallantry. 

A  sudden  shriek,  and  Annie  Johnson  ran  by  them 
down  the  knoll  at  breakneck  speed  upon  the  arm  of 
Deacon  Kirk.  The  fat,  elderly  woman's  face  was 
brick-red.  Her  mouth  hung  open.  A  rat-tail  of 
greyish  hair  fell  over  her  eye.  She  laughed  and 
panted,  laughed  and  panted,  as  in  hysteria.  She 
seemed  doomed  to  burst  a  blood-vessel. 

Barbara  frowned.     "  Ugh !     Horrid !  " 

Annie  Johnson  and  the  deacon  disappeared  among 
the  trees.  They  were  running  in  a  race,  a  race  of 
grandfathers  and  grandmothers;  and  Annie  would 
assuredly  have  won  this  race,  but  as  she  neared  the 
goal  she  fell  and  could  not  rise  again.  A  soft  and 
shapeless  mass  of  fat,  hysterically  laughing  and 
screaming,  she  floundered  in  her  white  dress  on  the 
gr*ass  like  a  great  fish  just  landed.  Her  ankle  was 
broken,  and  an  ambulance  took  her  home. 

"  What  book  are  you  reading,  Barbara  ?  "  said 
Jerome. 

Her  beauty  intoxicated  him.  He  could  hardly 
keep  his  huge  hands  off  her.    Like  white  birds  anx- 

29 


Barbara  Gwynne 

ious  to  alight,  they  hovered  continually  about  her 
shoulders,  her  arms,  her  waist.  And  now  he  took  the 
book  solely  in  order  to  touch  her  long,  cool  fingers. 

"  It's  *  The  Unhappy  Boy,*  "  she  answered. 

"Why,  that's  a  play!" 

"  But  I  love  plays.  Some  day  I'm  going  to  be 
an  actress." 

She  glanced  at  Chew  with  a  delicate  and  tor- 
menting smile;  but  Chew's  haughty  air  did  not 
change,  and  her  smile   faded. 

A  feverish  uproar,  as  of  a  horde  of  maniacs, 
drew  them  down  into  the  valley  again.  There,  in 
a  hideous  "  follow-my-leader,"  twenty-five  or  thirty 
middle-aged  couples,  urged  on  by  the  cries  of  a 
hundred  middle-aged  spectators,  ran  arm-in-arm, 
one  behind  the  other,  singing  breathlessly: 

*'  We'll  buy  a  horse  and  steal  a  gig, 
And  round  the  world  we'll  have  a  jig, 
And  I'll  do  all  that  ever  I  can 
To  follow  the  steps  of  the  Looney  Man! " 

Suddenly  the  leaders  of  the  rout  waved,  as  they 
ran,  their  free  hands  in  the  air.  Then  all  the  sing- 
ing, shrieking,  leaping  couples  behind  them  waved 
their  own  free  hands  in  like  wise. 

The  Looney  Man, 
The  Looney  Man! 
I'll  follow  the  steps  of  the  Looney  Man! 

30 


Barbara  Gwynne 

On  they  rushed,  stumbling  over  the  uneven  turf, 
zigzagging  among  the  old,  calm,  beautiful  trees. 
Their  hands  tossing  above  their  heads  seemed  the 
last  assurance  of  their  hopeless  madness. 

And  I'll  do  all  that  ever  I  can 

To  follow  the  steps  of  the  Looney  Man! 

Now  the  leading  couple  half  leapt,  half  scrambled, 
over  a  fallen  trunk  of  considerable  size.  Terrific 
screams  greeted  the  feat,  and  the  couples  behind 
charged  the  trunk  like  a  troop  of  decrepit  cavalry. 

The  men's  singing  faces  wore  devil-may-care 
looks,  their  thin  grey  hair  stood  in  disordered  tufts 
on  their  bony  heads.  The  breathless  women  stag- 
gered, their  eyes  rolled  here  and  there,  and  they 
shrieked  hideously. 

Over  the  great  trunk  they  scrambled,  the  male 
and  female  of  each  pair  leaning,  like  drunkards, 
heavily  on  one  another.  Sometimes  a  woman  fell; 
she  drew  her  companion  down  with  her;  the  two 
floundered  in  hopeless  entanglement  on  the  grass. 

Barbara's  lip  curled.  "  Qh,  I  think  it's  horrid !  " 
she  cried.  "  Why  do  you  laugh  ? "  And  she 
frowned  at  her  young  men. 

Jerome  at  once  stopped  laughing.  "  It's  going 
to  rain,"  he  said. 

The  air,  in  fact,  had  grown  heavier  hour  by  hour ; 
and  now  deep  violet  clouds  obscured  the  July  sun. 

31 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Under  her  white  bodice  Barbara's  slim  bosom 
rose  and  fell.  With  her  little  handkerchief  she 
wiped  tiny  beads  from  the  delicate  flesh  of  lip  and 
forehead.  "  I  hope,"  she  panted,  "  it  does  rain.  I 
can  hardly  breathe." 

"  We  had  better  go,"  said  Chew. 

"No;  you'll  be  drenched.  Stay  under  cover  till 
the  storm  is  over."  And  Jerome  led  them  to  the 
ice-cream  booth. 

On  the  way  a  cold  wind  engulfed  them.  They 
shivered.  The  trees  in  the  blast  waved  rhythmically 
their  green  plumes.  The  road  below  was  tormented 
like  a  stream;  higher  and  higher  rose  its  dust 
waves;  soon  it  resembled  a  cloud  rather  than  a 
road.    A  few  enormous  raindrops  fell. 

"  Hurry !  "  cried  Barbara ;  and  wrenching  her 
elbow  from  Jerome's  grasp,  she  ran  lightly  through 
the  storm-swept  wood. 

In  tattered  and  transparent  sheets  fell  the  tor- 
rential rain.  The  thunder  crashed  murderously  in 
their  ears,  then  rolled  with  mild  grumblings  far 
away.  A  zigzag  of  violet  fire  ran  down  the  sky, 
and  the  wet  wood  burst  suddenly  into  violet 
light. 

But  in  the  booth  they  were  comfortable  enough 
till  other  picnickers,  drenched  to  the  skin,  crowded 
in  on  them.  The  canvas  roof  began  to  leak,  and  the 
other  picnickers  fled  distractedly,  pressing  in  tight 

32 


Barbara  Gwynne 

circles  about  the  trunks  of  trees.  But  Barbara  and 
her  two  young  men  crouched  under  the  counter. 

There  it  was  dry,  but  the  heat  was  stifling.  Their 
cramped  attitudes  tortured  their  muscles.  Chew, 
against  whose  arm  Jerome's  great  shoulder  pressed, 
suddenly  gave  the  latter  a  push  that  caused  him  to 
lose  his  balance  and  sit  down  on  the  wet  floor  outside. 

Bewildered,  yet  polite,  Jerome  stammered  from 
his  puddle  pleasantly: 

"  Why— why  did  you " 

But  Chew's  harsh  laugh  told  him  that  the  push 
had  been  a  deliberate  insult. 

Thereupon  he  rose,  and,  mechanically  releasing 
with  thumb  and  finger  the  wet  trouser-seat  glued 
to  his  flesh,  he  looked  sternly  down  at  Chew  hud- 
dled under  the  counter  beside  Barbara. 

"  You're   no   gentleman !  " 

"  Oh,  clear  out !  You've  hung  about  here  long 
enough,  you  mucker !  " 

Silence.  Both  young  men  glanced  at  Barbara. 
She  was  still  and  calm.  She  looked  neither  at  the 
one  nor  at  the  other.  But  she  seemed  to  be  lis- 
tening with  attention,  even  with  interest.  There 
was  no  alarm  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  Mucker  ?    I'm  as  good  as  you  are." 

"  Clear  out,  you  mucker !  " 

"  I'm  a  mucker,  am  I  ?  "  Jerome  shook  his  fore- 
finger  at   Chew.      "And    you're    a   big-bug,    eh? 

33 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Well,  this  is  a  free  country,  Mr.  Chew.  We're  all 
born  equal  here." 

"Dry  up!" 

''  No,  I  won't  dry  up " 

"  Clear  out !    We're  sick  of  the  sight  of  you !  " 

" '  We're '  ?  Do  you,  too,  want  me  to  go, 
Barbara?" 

The  young  girl  looked  at  him.  Her  gaze  studied 
him  curiously,  calmly,  intelligently.  He  was  so  big 
and  strong,  a  giant  beside  Chew,  it  was  rather  nice 
of  him  to  make  no  use  of  threats  or  violence. 
"  You  see,  Jerome,"  she  said,  "  I  came  with " 

"  ril  go."  His  voice  rose  to  its  shrill,  plaintive 
key.  "  But  I  tell  you  what,  Mr.  Chew.  If  Bar- 
bara prefers  you  to  me,  it  ain't  because  you're  a 
big-bug  and  I'm  a  mucker.  It's  because  she  thinks 
you're  a  better  man  than  I  am." 

He  lifted  the  black  straw  hat  and  turned  away. 
Barbara  said: 

"  Good-bye,  Jerome,  and  thank  you  for  the  cream." 

"  You're  welcome,"  he  answered  sadly. 

And  he  stalked  out  into  the  tempest.  The  rain 
deluged  his  gaudy  finery.  The  thunder  leapt  upon 
him.  The  lightning  flashed  in  his  eyes  its  terrible 
flame. 

But  Jerome,  unmindful  of  the  storm,  walked 
through  the  drenched  and  writhing  wood  with  slow 
steps  and  bowed  head. 

34 


Ill 


In  September  he  opened  his  beauty  parlour,  two 
spacious  rooms  down  town,  delicately  gay  in  white 
and  rose.  Mrs.  Woodford  was  his  operator,  cashier, 
almost  factotum. 

Annie  Johnson's  story  of  his  discharge  from  the 
grocery  was  false.  He  resigned  from  the  grocery. 
But  he  himself  admitted  that  his  resignation  may 
have  forestalled — who  knows?  .   .   . 

For  the  old  grocer  had  repeatedly  pointed  out 
that  Zenobia  Cream  and  McWade  eggs  occupied 
the  best  places  in  the  little  shop.  The  old  grocer's 
complaints  were  just,  and  after  each  of  them  Jerome 
hurriedly  retired  his  crates  and  pots  into  the  dingi- 
est corner.  But  little- by  little,  as  time  passed,  he 
brought  them  forward  again  almost  unconsciously. 
For  Jerome,  in  the  pursuit  of  commercial  success, 
could  not  help  forgetting  the  old  grocer,  just  as  he 
could  not  help  forgetting  Elisha  Chew,  3rd,  in  the 
pursuit  of  amorous  success  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 

35 


Barbara   Gwynne 

It  was  time  to  resign.  His  August  profit  from 
Zenobia  Cream  had  been  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  dollars. 

Yet  only  sixteen  pharmacies  were  working  for 
him.  Suppose  sixteen  hundred,  suppose  sixteen 
thousand  pharmacies  were  working  for  him! 

He  chuckled  excitedly.  *'  I'm  a  fool,"  he  said,  as 
he  packed  in  yellow  bags  an  order  of  rice  and 
prunes.  "  It's  too  easy  money."  And  pouring 
coffee  into  the  splendid  scarlet  mill,  he  spun  the 
great  wheel  so  fast  that  it  became  a  blue-grey  mist. 

The  old  grocer,  bathed  in  sweat,  descended  from 
the  loft  where,  on  a  heap  of  dirty  potato-bags,  amid 
tropical  sunshine  and  a  loud  buzz  of  flies,  he  had 
taken  his  afternoon  nap.  A  pyramid  of  Zenobia 
Cream  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  counter,  and  a 
crate  of  McWade  eggs,  tilted  against  a  barrel, 
nearly  blocked  the  shop  entrance.  The  old  man 
kicked  the  crate.     He  shouted: 

"  I'll  fire  you  if  ever  again " 

But  Jerome,  looking  up  from  a  calculation  that 
promised  him  a  profit  of  thirty  thousand  dollars  a 
week,  said  hurriedly: 

"  I  resign,  boss." 

Mrs.  Woodford  a  month  before  had  given  up  her 
dressmaking  to  devote  herself  to  his  interests.  She 
was  on  a  salary,  and  in  her  little  house  in  Wabash 

36 


Barbara   Gwynne 

Avenue  the  dressmaking  litter  had  been  succeeded 
by  a  litter  of  small  white  pots,  boxes  of  labels,  sten- 
cils, packing-cases,  tall  bottles. 

Here,  all  day  long,  she  worked  alone.  In  the 
early  morning  she  fused  oil,  wax  and  rosewater  in 
a  porcelain-lined  kettle;  the  rest  of  the  day  she 
spent  in  labelling  the  little  pots  and  in  filling  them. 
with  the  smooth,  white,  perfumed  cream.  In  the 
solitude  and  silence  of  her  small  house  she  worked 
cheerfully,  her  supple  movements  full  of  vigour  and 
grace.  But  sometimes  a  frown  ruffled  her  calm 
brow,  and  she  would  stand  idle  before  her  table, 
an  erect  and  robust  figure,  gazing  at  the  wall  with 
perplexed  eyes.  If  at  eighteen  she  had  known  what 
she  would  be  at  thirty-five,  perhaps  she  would  have 
killed  herself.  .  .  Work,  work  and  self-denial, 
that  was  her  life.  Since  Harvey  Woodford's  de- 
sertion nine  years  ago  she  had  remained  unswerv- 
ingly industrious,  frugal,  good.  Why?  .  .  .  Banker 
Treves,  when  she  was  sewing  for  his  young  wife. 
.  .  But  Banker  Treves  was  such  an  old  man.  .  . 
Well,  a  little  longer,  and  she  herself  would  be  an 
old  woman.  Then  would  she  deem  these  frugal, 
chaste  years  of  self-denial  well  spent?  ...  or 
would  she  deem  them  wasted?  .  .  .  Horrible 
thoughts  .  .  .  and  with  an  impatient  shrug,  taking 
up  her  brush  again,  she  sealed  pot  after  pot  swiftly. 

The  beauty  parlour  was  her  own  idea,  and  she 

37 


Barbara  Gwynne 

rather  expected  to  be  a  partner  in  it.  It  demanded 
a  little  detective  work  at  first,  and  she  spent  three 
pleasant  days  in  visiting  all  the  beauty  parlours  of 
the  town.  She  was  manicured,  shampooed,  steamed, 
curled,  massaged,  and  she  asked  many  artless  ques- 
tions. Prodigious  was  the  information  she  thus 
acquired.  .  .  A  line,  too,  a  line  running  from  the 
side  of  her  left  nostril  down  to  the  corner  of  her 
mouth,  surely  became  much  fainter.  Strange  that 
no  one  spoke  of  it!  Her  perfect  faith  in  beauty 
parlours  dated  from  this  time. 

Jerome  left  to  her  the  decoration  of  the  rooms, 
and  their  pink  and  white  harmony  was  only  marred 
by  the  umbrella-stand,  a  frog  of  yellowish  porce- 
lain, bigger  than  a  trunk,  into  the  vast  red  cavern 
of  whose  open  mouth  it  was  almost  sickening  to 
thrust  an  umbrella.  He,  however,  liked  the  frog. 
He  had  bought  it  at  the  last  moment.  "  It  breaks 
the  sameness,"  he  explained,  with  a  deprecatory 
gesture  towards  the  white  and  rose  of  paper,  cur- 
tains, carpet  and  upholstery. 

Though  on  opening  day  he  had  not  intended  to 
appear,  he  made  two  visits  before  noon.  Silence, 
solitude,  even  a  little  gloom  possessed  the  beauty 
parlour. 

On  his  return  after  luncheon,  he  heard  at  last  a 
murmur  of  voices.  He  tiptoed  to  the  door.  Mrs. 
Woodford    moved    skilfully    about    the    operating 

38 


Barbara   Gwynne 

chair,  wherein  a  woman  in  black  reclined,  her  hair 
hanging,  a  greyish  tail,  down  to  the  carpet. 

"  The  baggy  look  under  the  eyes " 

He  started,  recognising  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Chew, 
whom  he  had  often  served  in  the  grocery. 

"  Not  in  one  treatment ! "  Mrs.  Woodford 
laughed  at  the  preposterous  idea.  "  But  if  you'll 
take  a  full  course  ticket '' 

"  How  much  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Chew. 

"  A  hundred  dollars  for  the  twenty  treatments." 

"  Well,  send  me  one.  In  a  plain  envelope,  you 
know." 

Mrs.  Woodford  dipped  her  fingertips  in  a  tiny 
tray  of  Zenobia  Cream.  With  outstretched  hands 
she  approached  the  woman  in  the  chair  capably. 
She  had,  he  noted,  the  air  of  a  distinguished 
surgeon,  of  a  fashionable  barber,  an  air  inspiring 
confidence  and  hope. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  the  business  ?  " 

"  I  studied  Lilia's  and  Fontaine's  methods,  but  a 
correspondence  course  was  what  helped  me  most." 

iMrs.  Chew,  as  the  massage  went  on,  praised  the 
eloquence  of  the  Rev.  George  Harper.  She  praised 
his  eloquence  a  long  time.  Then  she  praised  his 
beauty. 

"  He  has  lovely  eyes,"  assented  Mrs.  Woodford. 

"  And  such  a  delicate  skin,  like  a  girl's." 

"A  fine  physique,  too." 

39 


Barbara  Gwynnc 

"A  manly  man.  .  ."  And  after  a  pause  Mrs. 
Chew  repeated,  tenderly,  rhythmically,  as  if  it  had 
been  a  line  from  a  well-loved  poem,  "A  manly 
man." 

To  hear  women  praising  the  beauty  of  the  Rev. 
George  Harper,  with  his  black  whiskers  and  his 
flapping  raiment,  at  once  amused  and  disgusted 
Jerome.     He  slipped  out. 

On  his  return  at  five  Mrs.  Woodford  was  alone. 

"  We  must  get,"  she  said,  "  a  good  hair-drier. 
Mrs.  Chew  was  awfully  annoyed." 

He  threw  himself  in  one  of  the  great  pink  and 
white  chairs. 

"  I  never  thought  Mrs.  Chew  cared  anything 
about  her  looks,"  he  said.  '*  I  guess  she's  gone  on 
Harper." 

He  laughed  scornfully,  and  Mrs.  Woodford  be- 
gan to  praise  facial  massage.  The  theory  was  that, 
the  face  being  always  held  in  a  vertical  position,  its 
flesh  inevitably  sagged  down.  To  correct  this  sag- 
ging, a  rotary  upward  massage  was  required.  A 
rotary  upward  massage,  applied  to  the  face  of  an 
old  woman,  would  draw  the  flaccid  and  wrinkled 
flesh  up  to  its  proper  place  again,  would  fasten  it 
there,  would  give  it  a  smooth,  firm  surface. 

"  A  big  thing,  massage,"  he  mused. 

And  bidding  her  massage  his  own  face,  he  re- 
clined in  the  operating  chair,  a  "  woman's  page  " 

40 


Barbara  Gwynne 

from  the  Sunday  Press  in  his  hand,  while  over  his 
countenance,  thickly  coated  with  Zenobia  Cream, 
her  firm  fingers  plied  with  a  rustling  sound. 

"  Your  beard " 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  need  a  shave,"  said  he. 

The  massage  was  soothing,  pleasant.  He  closed 
his  eyes.  .  .  Aromatic  waters  in  a  fine  mist  cooled 
the  glowing  flesh.  Toilet  vinegars  made  the  skin 
tingle  and  burn.  .    . 

*'It's  fine,"  he  said  at  the  end.  ''You  do  it 
fine."  And  he  smiled  at  his  reflection  in  the  mir- 
ror.   "  Too  much  make-up  for  a  man,  though." 

"  Not  for  a  middle-aged  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Woodford,  quickly.  "  Her  eyes  are  not  as  sharp 
as  yours." 

"  The  main  idea,"  he  mused,  "  is  to  give  the  face 
a  hot,  puffy  feeling,  and  to  top  off  with  a  showy 
make-up." 


41 


IV 


Barbara's  alarm  clock  awakened  her  in  her  narrow 
bed  at  six,  and  she  extended  her  limbs  and  opened 
in  a  yawn  a  mouth  as  dainty  as  a  flower.  She 
could  not  bear  to  rise. 

Her  black  hair,  tumbling  over  the  pillow,  had, 
where  the  light  struck  it,  a  blue  iridescence;  and 
this  rich  frame  of  hair  about  her  oval  face  height- 
ened the  scarlet  of  the  delicate  and  full  lips,  the 
rose  of  the  cheeks,  and  the  smooth  brow's  translu- 
cent pallor,  while  the  drowsy  eyes,  by  contrast  with 
the  blue-black  hair,  seemed  a  purer  violet. 

She  rose.  Seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  the 
tips  of  her  slim  feet  on  the  floor,  she  yawned  again 
daintily,  stretching  out  her  arms ;  and  as  she  yawned 
she  smiled.  .  .  Then,  remembering  the  hour,  she 
hurried  to  the  bath. 

Despite  the  African  heat  of  the  September  morn- 
ing, her  bath  refreshed  her.  She  ran  back  gaily 
to  her  room.    Her  colour  was  more  delicately  bril- 

42 


Barbara   Gwynne 

liant  than  before.  Her  eyes,  from  which  all  drowsi- 
ness had  fled,  resembled  dew-drenched  violets. 

She  combed  her  black  hair,  tossing  its  lustrous 
masses  now  to  the  left,  now  to  the  right,  arranging 
it  upon  her  head  with  long  fingers  deft  as  a  musi- 
cian's. Then  she  dressed  in  the  garments  that  she 
had  brushed  and  folded  the  night  before. 

Barbara  put  on  her  straw  hat  like  a  boy's,  she 
glanced  from  the  mirror  to  the  clock.  It  was  a 
quarter  before  seven;  therefore  she  had  forty-five 
minutes  to  breakfast  and  make  her  train.  Going 
to  the  little  bookcase,  she  stood  before  the  rows 
of  volumes. 

Her  very  pure  profile  gave  her  a  haughty  air.  The 
white  blouse  and  the  blue  skirt  moulded  the  long 
lines  of  her  slim  figure.  Brown  stockings  and  brown 
shoes  set  off  the  thin  ankles  and  slender  feet. 

But  what  book  should  she  choose?  Her  fingers 
touched  Hans  Andersen,  hngered  on  Plato's  "  Apol- 
ogy," but  she  put  "  Hamlet  "  under  her  arm  and  ran 
down  to  the  dining-room. 

With  a  strange  smile  Miss  Mary  brought  her  a 
boiled  egg.  Barbara,  however,  sipping  a  glass  of 
water,  said: 

"  No,  thanks.    I  only  want  some  grapes." 

"  But  this  tgg " 

**  I  don't  like  our  boiled  eggs ! "  said  Barbara. 
"They  have, a  funny  smell." 

43 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"This  won't  have  a  funny  smell,"  said  Miss 
Mary.     "  This  is  a  new-laid  egg" 

She  opened  it  as  she  spoke;  its  yolk,  a  soft  ball, 
fell  into  the  cup. 

"  That's  the  way  an  egg  should  open ! "  Miss 
Mary  thrust  the  cup  under  Barbara's  nose. 
"Doesn't  that  smell  good?" 

Barbara,  frowning  in  aversion,  drew  back  her 
head;  but  the  delicate  odour  of  the  new-laid  egg 
caused  her  to  smile. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it's  lovely,  isn't  it?" 

And  she  ate  the  egg  with  a  good  appetite. 

"  It's  a  present  for  you,"  said  Miss  Mary,  "  from 
Jerome  McWade." 

"Well!" 

"  I  met  Jerome  at  prayer-meeting  last  night.  He 
was  asking  after  you,  and  I  told  him  you  worried 
me — you  wouldn't  eat  your  egg  at  breakfast.  So 
he  said  he'd  send  you  some  eggs  you  would  eat. 
Bill  Stroud  is  going  to  bring  you  two  new-laid  eggs 
every  morning  from  the  chicken  farm.  The  first 
two  came  just  now." 

Barbara  rose.    "  It's  kind  of  Jerome,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is.  He's  making  money,  too.  He  had 
on  a  new  brown  suit  last  night.  He  tried  to  find 
out  where  you  were,  but  I  never  let  on.  Where 
were  you  ?  " 

Since  everything  she  told  Miss  Mary  was  repeated 

44 


Barbara  Gwynne 


promptly  to  the  gossips  at  Brice's  bakery,  the  young 
girl  pretended  not  to  have  heard  that  question.  "  I'll 
miss  my  train,"  she  murmured,  taking  up  her  book. 

As  Barbara  hurried  down  Green  Lane  to  the  sta- 
tion her  carriage  was  modest,  and  she  glanced 
neither  to  right  nor  left.  For  if  her  eyes,  shining 
with  the  soft  and  tender  gaiety  of  youth,  were  ever 
permitted  to  wander,  they  were  sure  to  encounter  a 
man's  eyes ;  and  this  man  might  be  a  millionaire  in 
a  motor-car,  he  might  be  a  labourer  digging  in  a 
ditch ;  but  at  any  rate  his  eyes  would  look  deep  into 
hers  in  an  appeal  at  once  so  humble  and  so  daring 
that  it  would  trouble  her  strangely.  Her  own  eyes 
she  would  avert  at  once.  Otherwise,  inevitably,  the 
man,  nervous,  embarrassed,  would  accost  her. 

She  was  alone  in  the  world.  Of  her  mother  she  had 
no  memory.  Her  father,  a  musician,  had  played  the 
oboe  in  the  Philharmonic  Orchestra  for  many  years. 
Her  father's  salary  had  been  fourteen  dollars ;  work, 
moreover,  was  always  steady  with  him ;  yet  when  he 
died  he  left  behind,  as  is  the  way  of  these  bohemians, 
no  rich  estate  or  landed  property.  All  he  left  to 
Barbara  was  his  temperament — the  love  of  beautiful, 
honourable  things,  the  hatred  of  ugliness  and  falsity. 

Miss  Mary  Crocker,  with  whom  he  had  boarded, 
kept  Barbara  on  at  school  till  she  was  fifteen,  teach- 
ing her,  at  home,  morality :  the  morality  of  Cinna- 
minson.     Thus  she  taught  the  child  that  theft  is 

45 


Barbara  Gwynne 


immoral  because  thieves  go  to  jail.  She  taught 
her  that  unchastity  is  immoral  because  it  results  in 
nameless  babes.  She  taught  her,  in  a  word,  that 
immorality  is  immoral,  hell  fire  being  its  punishment. 

Barbara  worked  for  Miss  Mary  after  school,  and 
on  holidays  she  worked  for  her  from  six  in  the 
morning  till  eight  at  night.  Thus  she  paid  her 
way,  and  perhaps  a  little  more. 

At  fifteen,  through  the  influence  of  the  Rev. 
George  Harper,  she  secured  a  valuable  post  in 
Smollett's  department  store  at  a  salary  of  two  dol- 
lars and  a  half  a  week.  Three  years  of  faithful 
work  caused  this  salary  to  be  nearly  doubled. 
Barbara,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  got  four  dollars 
a  week  merely  for  selling  enough  neckties  to  give 
a  profit  of  sixty  dollars  a  week  to  her  employer. 

She  administered  that  income  well.  She  paid  her 
board  half  in  cash  and  half  in  labour — evening  and 
Sunday  labour — and  the  balance,  two  dollars,  suf- 
ficed for  car  fare,  for  miscellaneous  expenses,  and 
for  dress,  even  though  dress  at  Smollett's  must  be 
distinctly  smart. 

Of  course  Barbara  would  never  have  gained  the 
necktie  counter  had  she  not  been  pretty.  All  the 
girls  were  pretty  at  the  men's  counters.  When  a 
man  shopped  at  Smollett's  the  prettiest  girls  sur- 
rounded him.  They  smiled  up  in  his  eyes,  they  held 
his  hand  in  fitting  a  glove,  to  measure  him  for  a 

46 


Barbara  Gwynne 

collar  they  actually  put  soft,  light  arms  about  his 
neck.  .   . 

Barbara,  as  usual,  had  to  stand  on  the  crowded 
seven-thirty  train.  The  train  ride  was  hot,  and 
hotter  still  the  street-car  ride,  where  again  she  had 
to  stand,  her  young  flesh  pressed  against  the  sweat- 
ing flesh  of  men.  But  it  was  cool  at  the  necktie 
counter,  and  she  began  her  day's  work  cheerfully. 

A  benignant  old  banker  was  her  first  patron.  As 
she  gave  him  his  change,  he  laid  his  withered, 
tremulous  hand  on  hers  and  said: 

"  My  child,  I  am  a  banker.  My  name  is  Van 
Pelt."    ' 

She  drew  her  hand  away.  Mr.  Van  Pelt  resumed : 

"  You  look  pale.  You  need  the  air.  My  carriage 
is  at  your  disposal.  To-night,  for  instance,  if  a 
drive " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  Then,  perhaps,  some  other  time,"  said  Mr.  Van 
Pelt  calmly. 

He  lifted  his  hat,  and  Barbara's  kind  heart  would 
not  let  her  refuse  the  hand  that  he  extended 
frankly,  like  an  old  friend  of  her  father's,  in  farewell. 

Jerome  S.  McWade  bought  half  a  dozen  neckties 
at  two  dollars  apiece.  In  his  new  suit  of  "  ox-blood 
brown  "  Jerome  leaned  almost  completely  across  the 
counter  in  his  desire  to  be  near  the  beautiful  girl. 
The    abandon    of    his    attitude    embarrassed    and 

47 


Barbara  Gwynne 

amused  her.  She  thanked  him  for  her  eggs,  and  he 
praised  his  skill  at  chicken-farming  warmly. 

At  last,  with  a  regretful  sigh,  he  erected  himself 
from  the  low  counter.  He  drew  down  his  crumpled 
waistcoat. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  will  you  take  dinner  with  me 
to-night?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  am  going  to  dine  with  Mr. 
Chew." 

His  face  twisted  into  a  wry  smile,  a  smile  sug- 
gestive of  a  sudden  twinge  of  toothache. 

"  All  right.  Good-bye,"  he  said ;  and  he  hurried 
away  with  his  large  paper  bag  of  neckties. 

The  morning  passed.  At  noon,  seated  in  a  lamp- 
lit  subterranean  rest-room,  she  ate  without  appetite 
her  luncheon — two  dried  beef  sandwiches  and  a 
specked  banana.  A  girl  on  her  right  recounted  a 
mean  squabble : 

**  *  Look  out,  my  young  lady,'  she  said,  *  or  I'll 
report  you  to  the  floor  walker.' — '  Well/  said  I, 
'  there's  Mr.  Simpson  now.  Go  and  report  away.' — 
So  she  brought  Mr.  Simpson  over,  and  he  said  to  me, 
'  Can't  you  wait  on  this  lady,  Miss  Gibbs  ?  ' — '  No, 
Mr.  Simpson,'  I  said,  *  I  can't.  Don't  you  see  these 
ladies  here  I'm  waiting  on  ?  ' — '  Why,'  she  burst  out, 
*  she's  not  waiting  on  them  at  all.  She's  been  talking 
beaux  for  the  last  ten  minutes.' — '  Oh,  the  barefaced 
story ! '  said  I.     '  Girls,  did  I  mention  beaux  ?  '  " 

48 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Then  the  conversation  turned  to  dress,  and  Bar- 
bara opened  her  book.  But  reading  was  impossi- 
ble :  a  hundred  girls,  in  the  hot  and  crowded  room, 
chattered  of  clothes  and  men,  clothes  and  men,  too 
shrilly.  At  last,  her  half -hour  over,  she  returned, 
listless,  unrefreshed,  to  the  necktie  counter. 

A  fine  spoiled  the  afternoon,  a  fine  of  twenty 
cents,  due  to  a  clerical  error  in  her  sales-book.  The 
fine  was  just,  nevertheless  it  angered  her.  She 
would  be  glad  to  forget  it  in  the  excitement  of  a 
dinner  with  Elisha  Chew. 

At  the  day's  end  two  Cinnaminson  girls  accom- 
panied her  from  the  department  store.  She  tried 
to  escape  them,  but  it  was  impossible.  They  smiled 
lewdly  when  she  entered  the  hansom  wherein  Chew 
waited  at  the  corner  of  Peanut  Street. 

Chew,  in  a  suit  of  yellowish  plaid,  lounged  in  his 
seat,  a  gold-tipped  cigarette  in  his  brown  hand. 
His  brown  shoes  had,  in  lieu  of  laces,  straps  and 
buckles.  His  crossed  k«ees  showed  his  brown  socks 
of  openwork  silk. 

Barbara  seated  herself  beside  him  with  delight 
and  awe.  How  handsome  he  was,  how  aristocratic, 
how  rich!  And  the  overworked  young  girl  tried 
in  vain  to  imagine  the  beauty  of  his  life  of  idleness. 

"The  Westminster,"  he  bade  the  driver. 

Lounging  in  the  carriage,  he  seemed  superior  to 
all  the  troubles  of  mankind ;  and  his  calm  splendour 

49 


Barbara  Gwynne 

enchanted  Barbara — enchanted,  and  at  the  same 
time  tempted  her — as,  in  the  past,  a  fine  oboe  may 
have  tempted  her  father  to  try  his  skill. 

She  talked  artlessly,  as  the  hansom  hurried,  of 
Jerome  McWade.  Jerome  had  been  very  kind,  he 
W2LS  going  to  send  her  fresh  eggs  daily,  he  had  spent 
twelve  dollars  on  cravats. 

And  Chew's  godlike  serenity  departed  under  her 
prattle.  He  shifted  in  his  seat.  He  looked  sulky. 
His  voice  became  cold.  Then  Barbara,  satisfied, 
praised  his  yellowish  plaid  suit,  and  his  serenity 
returned. 

They  dined  at  six,  in  the  roof-garden  of  the 
Westminster,  twenty  storeys  above  the  heat-tor- 
mented city.  There  cool  airs  blew.  Palms  waved 
and  flowers  nodded.  From  arbours  and  trellises  on 
every  side  came  the  cheery  noise  of  rustling  leaves. 

And  all  was  delightful  till  Chew's  attack  on  the 
waiter.  The  waiter's  remark  about  the  heat  was 
only  prompted  by  politeness.  How  stupid  then  of 
Chew  to  snub  him,  to  mistake  his  politeness  for 
familiarity!  And  Barbara's  heart  ached  with  pity 
for  the  thin,  pale  waiter,  accepting  Chew's  insolence 
with  such  fine  humility,  limping  so  hurriedly  in 
Chew's  service — poor  frail  little  man — on  his  great, 
swollen  feet. 

As  she  descended  from  the  hansom  at  the  sta- 
tion. Chew  suddenly  invited  her  to  spend  the  even- 

50 


Barbara   Gwynne 

ing  at  Island  Park.  She  consented,  resuming  her 
place  with  a  smile. 

They  drove  to  the  pier,  and  were  at  once  swal- 
lowed up  in  a  whirlpool  of  young  men  and  girls,  five 
hundred  interlocked  young  men  and  girls,  shrieking, 
laughing,  grunting.  In  the  heart  of  this  whirlpool 
they  were  swung  very  slowly  down  the  landing-stage. 
There  came  a  jam,  they  were  lifted  off  their  feet, 
and  the  pressure  of  flesh  from  all  sides  actually  sus- 
tained them  in  mid-air.  Then  a  very  strong  current 
seized  them,  it  hurled  them  across  a  narrow  gang- 
way, it  discharged  them,  dishevelled  but  calm,  on 
to  the  steamer's  deck.  The  crowd  was  not  as  bad 
to-night  as  usual,  and  Barbara  laughed  good-hu- 
mouredly  as  she  pinned  up  a  rent  in  her  blue  skirt. 

The  steamer  started.  A  cool  wind  blew  steadily. 
The  young  men  and  girls,  in  groups  of  ten  or  twelve, 
sang  hideous  songs ;  or,  withdrawn  in  couples,  they 
sat  motionless  and  silent,  tightly  folded  in  one  an- 
other's arms,  like  wrestlers  of  equal  strength. 

Chew  took  Barbara's  hand,  but  she  withdrew  it 
gently.  She  asked  him  a  question  concerning  the 
horse  show.  Passion  was  at  once  driven  from  his 
heart,  and  he  talked  haughtily  and  contentedly  till 
the  ride's  end  about  a  blue  ribbon. 

In  a  damp,  hot  grove  at  Island  Park  they  lis- 
tened for  an  hour  to  the  deafening  uproar  of  a  band 
seated,  in  a  blaze  of  light,  in  an  enormous  pink 

51 


Barbara  Gwynne 

shell.  Innumerable  mosquitoes  whined  in  their  ears. 
Chew  crushed  mosquito  after  mosquito  on  his  socks 
of  open-work  silk. 

It  was  necessary  to  drink  deep ;  managers,  prowl- 
ing amongst  the  tables,  saw  to  that.  Formidable 
men  in  black,  they  continually  beckoned  and  whis- 
pered to  the  waiters,  nodding  towards  such  couples 
as  dared  to  linger  over  their  beer.  Then  the  waiters 
would  dart  upon  these  couples,  snatch  up  their 
glasses  still  half-filled,  and  ask  sternly,  reproach- 
fully, what  the  next  order  was  to  be. 

Chew  and  Barbara  returned  on  one  of  the  earlier 
boats.  It  was  not  crowded.  They  had  the  bow 
almost  to  themselves. 

They  said  little,  seated  side  by  side.  On  their 
moist  brows  the  cool,  soft  air  was  delicious  after  the 
stuffy  grove.  Overhead  the  sky  was  pale;  a  pale 
sky  of  faint  stars,  a  hidden  moon,  and  luminous, 
bluish-white  clouds.  Their  shoulders  touched.  The 
bluish-white  clouds,  resembling  mountains  of  foam, 
drifted  from  off  the  moon.  The  moon  floated  in  a 
sky  so  pale  and  clear  that  all  the  stars  were  faded. 

A  deep  bass  music  began  to  manifest  itself  in 
Chew's  voice,  and  on  that  deep  music  Barbara's 
replies,  delicate  and  sweet,  fell  like  harp  notes  in  a 
symphony.  Then,  silent,  they  gazed  at  one  another 
in  the  moonlight.  Each  found  the  other's  moonlit 
face  beautiful  with  a  beauty  strangely  serene.  .  . 

52 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Timidly,  expecting  a  rebuff,  he  slipped  his  arm 
around  her.  She  nestled  to  him  with  a  sigh.  He 
looked  down  in  surprise.  She  was  no  longer  smil- 
ing. She  no  longer  thought  of  playing  upon  him. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  nature  would  play  upon  her. 

Her  upturned  face  was  pale,  the  shadowy  eyes 
were  sad,  the  lips  parted.  And  the  world  seemed  to 
the  young  man  to  disappear.  Nothing  remained  but 
a  girl's  beautiful  face  upturned  in  the  moonlight. 
Pale,  incredibly  pale,  that  moonlit  face ;  sad,  sad  be- 
yond belief  the  shadowy  eyes;  and  the  imperious 
sweetness  of  the  parted  lips  .  .  .  the  parted  lips.  .  . 

"Barbara!" 

He  glued  his  lips  to  hers.  Shivering,  she  locked 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  A  moment,  an  hour.  .  . 
And  lo,  the  boat  had  struck  against  the  piles,  already 
the  excursionists  were  disembarking. 

On  the  pier  Barbara  was  taciturn  and  grave,  her 
lids  were  lowered,  she  trembled,  she  seemed  almost 
ill. 

They  entered  a  carriage,  and  silently,  desper- 
ately, she  flung  herself  again  into  his  arms.  The 
carriage  hastened,  and  in  the  darkness,  what  with 
her  closed  eyes  and  her  silence,  he  might  have 
deemed  her  unconscious  but  for  her  lips'  passionate 
response  to  his  kisses. 

He  murmured  soothing  phrases  to  the  lost  girl, 
while  at  heart  he  exulted,  "  At  last!    At  last!  " 

53 


Barbara  Gwynne 

And  he  marvelled  at  her  surrender,  and  he  pitied 
and  at  the  same  time  he  despised  her. 

The  carriage  stopped.  He  had  to  rouse  her  al- 
most roughly.  She  descended,  leaning  on  his  arm. 
"  But  this  isn't  the  station,"  she  protested,  in  a 
weak,  querulous  voice. 

He  opened  the  door  of  a  huge  house  with  boarded 
windows. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  we'll  stay  here  to-night." 

She  smiled  a  shocked  and  weary  smile.  "  But — 
but — before  we're  married  ?  " 

Chew  sprang  back  with  a  mean  look  of  alarm. 
"  Oh,  no,  you  don't !  I  never  mentioned  mar- 
riage ! "  he  cried. 

She  burst,  to  his  astonishment,  into  wild  sobs. 
She  turned  and,  putting  up  her  arm  against  the 
wall,  she  hid  her  face  in  it. 

He  looked  down  doubtfully,  from  the  open  door 
of  his  mother's  empty  town  house,  at  that  tall  and 
slender  figure  in  its  attitude  of  despair.  .  .  Was 
she  shamming?  .   .   .  Women  are  tricky. 

"Barbara!" 

But  she  would  not  turn.  Her  face  remained 
buried  in  her  upraised  arm.  Her  bowed  back 
heaved.  Her  low  sobs  had  a  horrible  sound,  as 
though,  to  get  out,  they  lacerated  the  flesh  of  her 
throat.     No;  she  wasn't  shamming. 

He  felt  ashamed.  But  he  drove  away  the  thought  of 

54 


Barbara  Gwynne 

shame  as  silly  and  false.  He,  a  millionaire  aristocrat, 
was  treating  this  low  shop-girl  as  it  is  right  for  mil- 
lionaire aristocrats  to  treat  low  shop-girls.   Still  .  .  . 

He  hesitated,  then  took  her  hand.  Her  cold 
hand  lying  limp  in  his,  she  wept  quietly. 

"Barbara,"  he  whispered. 

She  turned  to  him.    "  You  said  you  loved  me." 

"Barbara,  I  do  love " 

"  No !  If  you  loved  me,  you'd — ^you'd  want  to 
marry  me.     I  can't  understand  it." 

"  I'll  explain " 

"  You  can't  love  me  and  think  me  so  beneath  you !  " 

Her  voice  rose  in  anger.  She  jerked  her  hand 
from  him.    Chew,  angered  in  his  turn,  said : 

"  Well,  I  never  thought  of  marriage,  and  you 
know  it!" 

Again  his  words  drew  forth  that  lamentable  wail, 
and  again  he  felt  ashamed.  But  he  remembered  his 
ancestry  (he  was  descended  from  a  milkman  whose 
eighteenth  century  cow  pasture  now  formed  a  pes- 
tiferous slum)  and  the  memory  of  his  ancestry 
strengthened  him. 

"  She  can't  rope  me  in,"  he  muttered. 

And  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  disappeared  in  the 
night:  an  overdressed  figure  swaggering  hurriedly 
towards  a  club,  swaggering  hurriedly  towards 
whiskey,  tobacco,  laughter,  and  the  swift  forgetful- 
ness  of  an  annoying  failure. 

55. 


Barbara  found,  on  reaching  the  station,  that  the 
last  train  was  gone.  She  had  no  money.  What 
was  she  to  do? 

Her  eyes  were  swollen,  and  to  hide  them,  ponder- 
ing her  plight,  she  stood  before  the  closed  Cinna- 
minson  gate  with  bowed  head.  Though  she  no 
longer  wept,  a  nervous  shudder  now  and  then 
seized  her,  her  shoulders  jerked,  and  she  gasped. 
This  mortified  her  exceedingly. 

Pacing  the  station's  marble  corridor,  she  decided 
to  walk  home.  It  was  a  long  walk,  eight  miles  or 
more.  But  there  was  no  alternative,  and  she  set 
out  resolutely. 

And  hour  after  hour,  on  her  homeward  way,  she 
trudged  a  mean  black  avenue:  an  empty,  silent 
avenue  of  mean  black  shops,  mean  black  houses, 
rows  of  flickering  gas-lamps — nothing  but  that, 
hour  after  hour,  mile  after  mile. 

"  I  must  forget,"  she  whispered. 

56 


»  Barbara  Gwynne 

Now  and  then,  out  of  the  darkness,  a  black  fig- 
ure lurched,  and  her  heart  stopped  still  in  terror. 
But  it  would  only  be  a  drunkard,  muttering  his 
maudlin  sorrows,  seeing  nothing  as  he  staggered 
past. 

A  tall  policeman  on  a  corner  halted  her.  He 
offered  her  whiskey  from  a  flask;  he  tried  to  put 
his  arm  about  her  waist;  he  threatened  to  arrest 
her  for  street-walking.  Frantic,  she  turned  and 
fled. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  Diamond  Square  she 
got  lost  and  wandered  for  an  hour,  crying  with 
vexation  and  fatigue,  before  she  found  the  silent, 
empty,  lamp-lit  avenue  again. 

The  dawn  overtook  her  at  Perkiomen,  and  in  the 
faint  dawn  light  the  landscape  seemed  as  unreal  as 
a  dream.  How  strange,  how  cruel,  that,  while  all 
the  world  slept,  she  must  walk  alone  amid  these 
vast  blue  silences  of  the  dreaming  dawn.  .   . 

Life  was  cruel.  She  wished  that  she  was  dead. 
Ah,  but  some  day  she  would  be  dead.  Some  day, 
somewhere,  she,  she  herself,  an  old  woman,  would 
lie  dying.  Where  would  that  be  ?  And  what  would 
she  be  dying  of  ?  The  thought  was  horrible.  Yet 
every  girl,  since  the  world's  beginning,  had  had  that 
thought. 

Life  was  cruel.  Nevertheless  she  did  not  wish  to 
die  before  her  time.    And  tears,  as  she  trudgfed  on, 

57 


Barbara  Gwynne 

filled  her  eyes;  she  wiped  them  away  with  a  tiny 
handkerchief  which  she  took  from  her  little  pocket- 
book. 

"Why,  Miss  Gwynne!" 

She  started,  a  wagon  drew  up,  and  Walter  John- 
son, the  gossip's  husband,  looked  down  at  her  with 
a  shocked  smile.  He  was  returning  from  market 
with  a  load  of  damaged  vegetables  and  fruit. 

"  I  missed  the  last  train,"  said  Barbara. 

"  But " 

"  I  had  no  money,  you  see." 

"  Well,  get  in  here,"  said  Johnson.  "  You  must 
be  dead." 

"  I'm  almost  dead,"  she  confessed.  But  she 
climbed  up  to  the  high  seat  with  nimble,  boyish 
grace.  She  sat  very  erect  on  a  horse-blanket  smell- 
ing of  horse,  and,  feeling  Johnson's  gaze  upon  her, 
she  assumed  a  calm  and  stately  air.  "  Thank  you 
very  much,"  she  said,  glancing  at  him  nervously 
out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"  G'lang !  G'lang  there !  What  do  I  feed  ye 
fur?" 

Johnson,  a  florid  man  of  forty-five,  shot,  as  they 
jolted  on,  sly  glances  at  her.  But  the  pure,  proud 
profile  inspired  him  with  respect. 

"Have  you  been  to  Island  Park  lately?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Barbara ;  "  I  was  there  last 
night." 

58 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  started.  He  looked  at  her  again.  The  profile 
was  incredibly  grave  and  pure. 

"  Gay  place,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  No ;  it's  a  stupid  place,"  said  she. 

Thereafter  they  rode  on  in  silence. 

"  I'll  get  out  here,"  said  Barbara  at  Green  Lane. 

"  Can't  I  drive  you  to  the  door  ?  " 

"No,  thank  you." 

He  reined  in  his  horse.  "  It's  just  as  well  not," 
he  said,  with  a  leer,  "  if  you  want  to  slip  in  quietly." 

"I  don't " 

But  she  stopped  short,  mortified  to  think  that  she 
had  been  about  to  undertake  the  task,  at  once  shame- 
ful and  futile,  of  defending  her  character  against 
a  man's  slur.  Very  red,  she  mumbled  a  hurried 
word  of  thanks,  and  turned  and  sped  up  the  hill. 

Shame  .  .  .  she  had  wallowed  in  shame.  .  . 
And  she  shook  herself,  in  the  effort  to  escape  her 
torturing  memories,  as  one  shakes  oneself  to  drive 
off  clouds  of  gnats. 

"  I  must  forget,"  she  whispered  passionately. 

The  door  was  unlocked,  and  she  ascended  on 
tiptoe  to  her  little  room.  The  little  room,  quiet 
and  white  and  clean,  had  a  serene  air.  The  little 
room  in  its  still  serenity  was  beautiful.  And  yes- 
terday she  had  been  like  it;  but  to-day  she  was 
stained  and  foul. 

"  It  isn't  my  fault,"  she  sobbed,  as,  in  her  night- 

59 


Barbara  Gwynne 

gown,  she  examined  the  rent  in  her  skirt.  "  It 
was  he,  it  was  he ! "  And  she  bent  over  the  skirt 
anxiously,  while  tears  fell  on  the  cloth. 

The  bed  welcomed  her,  she  nestled  in  its  soft 
depths,  and  at  once,  so  great  was  her  fatigue,  she 
seemed  to  glide  down  a  smooth  incline  to  sleep.  Her 
eyes  opened — opened  the  next  moment,  it  appeared 
• — ^yet  she  was  perfectly  refreshed,  her  clock  marked 
three  in  the  afternoon,  she  had  slept  nine  hours ! 

She  would  lose  a  day's  work,  but  that  did  not 
trouble  her.  Nothing  troubled  her.  She  felt  so 
extraordinarily  well.  To  fec;  like  this  was  happi- 
ness. 

And  she  smiled  contemptuously  at  the  thought  of 
Elisha  Chew,  and,  rising,  she  whistled  as  she  made 
her  toilet. 

•  She  had  not  loved  Chew.  She  had  only  loved 
with  a  snobbish  love  his  elegance  and  wealth,  the 
greatest  she  had  yet  seen.  But  Chew  himself  she 
had  always  despised  a  little,  for  he  was  stupid, 
cruel.  She  recalled  this  stupid  cruelty  and  that 
which  he  had  inflicted  on  waiters,  saleswomen,  mes- 
sengers, on  all  who  served  him. 

She  had  seen  his  stupid  cruelty,  but  through  the 
golden  mist  of  his  wealth  and  elegance  it  had  ap- 
peared unimportant.  And  she  would  have  married 
him  despite  it,  she  would  have  believed  that  she  loved 
him,  had  he  not  opened  her  eyes  last  night. 

60 


Barbara   Gwynne 

How  he  had  opened  her  eyes !  He  had  made  his 
reason  for  refusing  to  marry  her  but  too  clear. 

Stupid  and  cruel !  If  he  had  lied :  if  he  had  said, 
for  example,  tliat  he  could  not  marry  her  because 
his  income  would  cease  if  he  married  against  the 
wishes  of  his  trustees,  why,  then,  perhaps.  .   . 

Barbara  blushed.  Remembering  his  kisses,  she 
blushed  more  deeply.  She  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
burning  cheeks.  .    . 

Then  she  laughed.  For  last  night  did  not  mat- 
ter, the  past  did  not  matter,  nothing  mattered.  To- 
day she  began  afresh. 

She  descended  to  the  kitchen,  and,  standing  by 
the  window,  she  ate  two  large  pieces  of  cake,  for 
she  was  very  hungry,  and  drank  a  glass  of  milk. 
Then  she  sought  Miss  Mary. 

Dressed  for  the  evening,  Miss  Mary  sat  in  the 
little  parlour.  On  Barbara's  entry  she  looked  up 
from  the  Cinnaminson  Scimitar  with  reproachful 
eyes. 

"Well!" 

The  young  girl  spoke  calmly  from  the  doorway. 

"  I  quarrelled  with  Elisha  Chew,  missed  the  last 
train,  and  had  to  walk  home." 

"But  why  did  you  walk?" 

"  Because  I  had  no  money  to  ride." 

"  Km." 

Miss  Mary  rose  and  handed  her  a  telegram. 
6i 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  They  brought  it  this  morning,"  she  said.  "  I 
knocked  at  your  door,  but  you  were  so  sound  asleep 
it  seemed  a  shame  to  wake  you." 

Barbara  knew  the  telegram  could  only  come  from 
Chew,  and  without  breaking  the  seal  she  tore  it  into 
little  pieces. 

"  I'm  done  with  him !  "  she  said,  and  her  eyes 
glittered  angrily,  she  compressed  her  lips. 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  asked  Miss  Mary. 

But  the  young  girl,  pretending  not  to  hear, 
dropped  the  fragments  of  the  telegram  into  a  vase. 

"  I  am  going  out  now,"  she  said,  "  for  a  long 
walk." 

And  as  she  descended  Green  Lane,  she  could 
have  danced  and  sung,  so  light  and  clean  and  fresh 
did  she  feel  from  her  deep  sleep.  The  sky  was 
blue,  the  air  still  and  frosty,  and  the  sunshine  on 
wall  and  tree-trunk  had  a  deep  yellow  note,  an 
autumn  note.  Autumn,  the  season  she  loved  best, 
was  come  again. 

"  Last  night  doesn't  matter,"  she  told  herself. 
"  The  past  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters.  I 
have  begun  afresh." 

But  the  gossips  of  Cinnaminson,  seated,  a  fat, 
grey,  dingy  circle,  in  Brice's  bakery,  started  at 
sight  of  the  radiant  girl,  and  Annie  Johnson  rose 
and  hastened  forth  to  meet  her. 

"  Hello,  Barb."  Tense  with  excitement,  Annie 
62 


Barbara   Gwynne 

Johnson  looked  up  eagerly  in  Barbara's  face.  "  Do 
you  feel  all  right  this  afternoon,  Barb?" 

There  was  evil  in  her  question,  and  her  evil  eyes 
searched  sharply  the  beautiful  and  honourable  eyes 
of  the  young  girl.  Barbara,  very  much  offended, 
said: 

"Yes,  thanks;  I'm  all  right." 

"  You  missed  the  train  last  night,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

From  the  circle  of  gossips  in  the  bakery  three  or 
four  elderly  women  rose.  Their  withered  faces 
smiled  excitedly,  like  the  faces  of  cruel  children 
bent  on  mischief.  Drawn  close  together,  almost 
touching,  these  faces  now  peeped  out  at  Barbara, 
filling  the  glass  panel  of  the  door.  She  turned  and 
looked  at  them  calmly,  and  they  disappeared. 

"  There's  no  trouble  between  you  and  Elisha,  I 
hope  ?  "  Annie  Johnson  pursued. 

"  I  must  be  off,"  said  Barbara.  "  I'm  out  for  a 
long  walk." 

"  But  I  want  to  know " 

The  young  girl,  however,  had  escaped. 

She  had  escaped,  but  her  walk  was  spoiled.  She 
crossed  Green  Lane  Bridge,  she  sauntered  down  the 
River  Road,  and  now  she  read  her  book,  and  now 
she  gazed  at  the  blue  river  winding  between  green 
fields.  But  her  walk  was  spoiled.  Very  lonely,  she 
hastened  home. 

63 


Barbara   Gwynne 

"  If  they  would  let  me  be ! "  she  sobbed  in  her 
room.    "If  they  would  only  let  me  be !  " 

With  letters  and  telegrams  Chew  bothered  her 
for  a  fortnight.  Once  he  accosted  her  in  Peanut 
Street.  Walking  beside  her,  he  pleaded  to  be  for- 
given. But  she  ignored  him.  Chew  had  opened 
her  eyes,  and  she  would  never  suffer  again  at  his 
mean  hands. 

He  disappeared  mysteriously  the  next  week. 
Strange  looks,  after  his  disappearance,  were  bent 
upon  her,  and  under  those  strange  looks  she 
blushed,  feeling  as  hideously  abased  as  though  in- 
deed guilty  of  whatever  thing  it  was  they  charged 
her  with. 

In  the  underground  rest-room  at  Smollett's  the 
uglier,  older  girls  spoiled  her  daily  half-hour  with 
vile  questions.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  look  out  for 
Chew?" 

Then  Mary  Heron,  the  notorious  Mary  Heron, 
essayed  to  take  her  up.  When  Mary,  for  the  first 
time  that  year,  entered  the  rest-room,  all  conversa- 
tion paused  at  her  appearance. 

She  was  pretty,  very  blonde,  with  brown  eyes. 
Her  gown  was  beautifully  cut.  She  wore  about 
her  neck  a  string  of  small,  pure  pearls. 

"  Hello,  Barbara,"  she  said,  with  her  roguish 
smile.  "  Give  me  a  hard-boiled  egg,  will  you  ?  " 
She  ignored  the  other  girls. 

64 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Barliara.  "This  is  the  only 
one  I've  got  left.  But  I'll  give  you  half  if  you 
like?" 

"  Oh,  keep  It,"  said  Mary.  Her  beautiful  teeth 
were  like  snow  as  she  laughed,  and  she  beckoned 
the  juvenile  attendant. 

"  Get  some  chocolates,"  she  said,  "  and  some 
soda-water  and  cakes  and  ice-cream  at  the  lunch 
counter."  She  took  out  a  two-dollar  note.  "  What 
flavours  do  you  like,  Barbara  ?  " 

Barbara  knew  that  all  the  girls  in  the  room  were 
regarding  Mary  and  her;  she  knew  that,  if  she  ac- 
cepted Mary's  hospitality,  the  girls  would  believe 
her  fallen  to  Mary's  level.  She  must  now  choose 
quickly  between  wounding  Mary  Heron  and  pre- 
serving the  respect  of  these  suspicious  girls.  She 
made  her  choice  without  any  hesitation. 

"  Vanilla  soda-water,"  she  said  calmly,  "  and 
bisque  ice-cream." 

The  boy  departed,  and  Mary  put  her  pretty  feet 
on  the  table  and  looked,  with  her  gay,  rather  mali- 
cious smile,  about  the  lamp-lit  subterranean  room 
crowded  with  girls.  The  girls  were  neatly  dressed, 
and  they  had  the  proud  and  glittering  charm  of 
youth;  but,  inasmuch  as  the  rich  George  Smollett 
worked  them  so  hard  that  no  time  was  left  for 
sunshine  or  fresh  air,  they  were  pale  and  sickly; 
and  inasmuch  as  Smollett  did  not  pay  them  enough 

65 


Barbara  Gwynne 

to  allow  of  their  proper  nourishment,  they  were 
very  thin. 

These  pale,  thin,  sickly  girls,  overworked  and 
underfed,  talked  gaily,  in  the  unwholesome  base- 
ment's artificial  light,  of  clothes  and  men,  clothes 
and  men.  And  here  and  there  among  them,  easily 
to  be  distinguished,  sat  a  ruined  girl. 

The  ruined  girl's  boots  were  trim  and  costly,  her 
frock  was  admirably  cut;  her  eyes,  furthermore, 
were  bright  and  clear,  her  lips  were  red,  her  con- 
tours firm  and  vigorous.  The  soul  of  the  ruined 
girl  was  damned,  of  course,  for  ever,  but  her  body 
was  in  an  incomparably  better  condition  than  the 
bony  bodies  of  her  saved  sisters. 

The  boy  returned  with  a  luncheon  deliciously 
sweet,  and  Mary  gave  him  a  quarter. 

"  I  always  lunch  out,"  she  said,  **  but  my  beau 
disappointed  me  to-day." 

She  sipped  her  white  and  foaming  drink.  "  It's 
Jack  Plummer,"  she  explained.  "  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"  I  met  him  once  at  the  Westminster,  I  think." 

"  Yes ;  he  is  a  friend  of  Elisha  Chew,  3rd's.  So 
is  Maximilian  Forrester,  Jr.  Do  you  know  him, 
too?" 

"  I've  met  him." 

Mary  lowered  her  voice.  "  Plummer  and  I  and 
Maximilian  Forrester,  Jr.,  are  going  to  take  dinner 

66 


Barbara  Gwynne 

at  the  Westminster  to-night.  Come  with  us,  will 
you?" 

"  But,"  objected  Barbara,  "  Forrester  is  mar- 
ried." 

"  He  doesn't  live  with  his  wife." 

"  What  difference  does  that  make  ?  " 

Mary  frowned.  "  I  didn't  think  you  were  so  par- 
ticular any  more." 

"  I'm  as  particular  as  I  ever  was,"  said  Barbara. 

**The  more  fool  you." 

Mary  Heron  rose.  She  counted  her  money,  and 
then,  unbuttoning  her  blouse,  she  thrust  her  purse 
down  into  the  front  of  her  corset.  She  seemed 
unconscious  of  the  hundred  eyes  staring  at  her 
fresh  young  bosom,  staring  at  her  corset  of  pale, 
flowered  satin.  She  calmly  smoothed  the  delicate 
lace  and  knots  of  narrow  ribbon  that  the  purse  had 
disarranged,  and  then,  buttoning  her  blouse  again, 
she  gave  Barbara  a  half -contemptuous,  half-friendly 
nod  as  she  lounged  forth. 


6? 


VI 


"  Oh,  Fm  not  going  to  faint,"  said  Barbara  hur- 
riedly. She  rose,  but  Henry  Ford  remonstrated 
from  his  horse: 

"  No ;  sit  down  again/* 

She  sank  back  on  the  grass,  she  leaned  her  head 
against  the  rough  bark  of  the  oak,  closing  her  eyes. 

The  October  sky  was  blue.  A  cold,  pure  wind 
rustled  the  hilltop  foliage.  Down  in  the  valley  the 
forest  swayed. 

"  What  was  the  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  I  thought 
you'd  fall." 

"  I  felt  so  light,"  she  answered,  "  as  though  I 
were  afloat  in  the  air." 

"  Have  you  been  ill  ?  " 

"Oh,  no;  I'm  never  ill." 

"  But  you're  thin  and  pale."  He  paused.  "  You 
didn't  use  to  be  so  thin  and  pale." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  me  before  ? "  said  Bar- 
bara carelessly. 

68 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  and  he  dismounted  and 
walked  beside  her.  His  horse  lingered,  cropping  the 
roadside  grass.  When  he  whistled,  the  beautiful 
animal  hesitated,  then  moved  forward,  tossing  its 
head,  with  an  obedience  reluctant  and  disdainful. 

"  Don't  you  love  the  autumn  ?  "  said  the  young 
girl. 

"  It  is  the  best  of  the  year." 

"  Why  do  the  poets  call  the  autumn  sad  ?  I  am 
never  so  happy  as  on  an  autumn  day." 

She  faced  the  joyous  wind.  With  shining  eyes 
she  gazed  down  at  the  tumultuous  forest.  Her 
dress,  blown  backward,  revealed  the  contours  of  her 
slender  limbs,  round  arms,  and  small,  girlish  breasts. 

"  But  you  are  ill.  I'm  a  physician.  Did  you 
know  that?" 

"  Yes,  Dr.  Ford." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  prescribe  for  you.  You 
have  no  appetite." 

"  No,"  she  said  angrily.  "  I  can't  eat  at  all." 

"  Do  you  work  somewhere  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  at  Smollett's." 

"  Then  you  must  take  a  week  off.  You  must  set 
out  every  morning  with  your  luncheon  and  a  book 
'■ — if  you  like  books?" 

"  I  love  books." 

"  And  you  must  tramp  and  read  and  bask  in  the 
sun  all  day." 

69 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"That  would  be  pleasant,"  she  said,  frowning, 
"  if  one  could  leave  one's  thoughts  behind." 

"  But  you  have  no  ugly  thoughts ! " 

"  You  don't  know — ^you  don't  know  what " 

Averting  her  face,  she  walked  on  hurriedly. 

"  You  shouldn't  grieve — you,  of  all  persons !  " 
He  laughed,  but  his  voice  was  kind.  "  Wait  till 
you're  an  old  woman  to  grieve." 

Barbara's  lip  curled.    "  You  don't  know "  she 

began.  Then,  in  silence,  she  stroked  his  horse's 
satin  neck.  But  the  horse,  disturbed  in  some  mild 
equine  reverie,  shook  off  her  hand. 

Below  them  the  green  world  glittered  in  the  sun- 
shine. Here  and  there  a  maple,  touched  with  the  first 
frost,  resembled  a  scarlet  flame.  Barbara  liked  this 
young  man.  She  liked  his  blond  hair.  She  liked 
his  white  teeth.  Above  all  she  liked  his  singularly 
intelligent  and  clear  eyes. 

"  Now  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

*'  As  your  physician,"  said  he,  "  I'll  come  and 
see  you,  if  you'll  let  me.  Miss  Gwynne.'* 

"  So  you  know  my  name,  too ! " 

They  shook  hands.  The  young  girl,  strangely 
elated,  hurried  away.  He  stood  and  watched  her, 
admiring  the  light  and  supple  elegance  of  her  walk. 

Barbara,  as  he  hoped,  looked  back  at  the  last  turn 
of  the  path,  she  waved  her  hand  and  disappeared. 


70 


VII 


She  sipped  the  Munich  beer,  black  and  velvety, 
that  Dr.  Ford  had  sent  her,  and,  grimacing  at  its 
bitter  taste,  she  turned  reluctantly  again  to  her  un- 
derdone beef. 

Miss  Mary  smiled.  "  Keep  on,"  she  said.  "  You 
look  so  much  better.  There  are  some  little  freckles 
on  your  nose." 

"  It  is  the  wind." 

"  Isn't  Dr.   Ford   a  fine  young  man?     If  he, 


now- 


"Why  doesn't  he  practise  medicine?"  Barbara 
asked. 

"  You  know  well  enough  he's  a  millionaire.  That 
isn't  why  he  doesn't  practice,  though.  He's  a  stu- 
dent. Don't  you  remember  that  article  in  the  Cin- 
naminson  Scimitar  about  a  germ  he  discovered? 
If  he r 

But  Barbara,  with  a  laugh,  was  gone.  In  her 
trim  blue  suit  she  ascended  Green  Lane  slowly. 
She  got  a  book  at  the  library,  and,  going  down  to 

71 


Barbara  Gwynne 

the  Perkiomen,  she  spent  the  afternoon  now  seated 
on  a  bench  in  the  sun,  now  slowly  pacing  the  path 
beside  the  stream. 

It  was  the  middle  of  October,  a  windless,  silent 
day.  The  afternoon  sunshine  was  soft  and  glit- 
tering. Dead  leaves  fell  through  the  crystal  air; 
they  lay  on  the  water's  surface  in  a  scarlet  and  gold 
mosaic. 

Barbara  looked  up  from  the  beauty  of  her  book, 
and  the  profound  beauty  of  the  day  filled  her  with 
happiness.  The  stream  at  her  feet,  a  pavement  of 
scarlet  and  gold,  curved  down  and  away  through 
slumbrous,  glittering  vales.  Blue  swirls  of  smoke 
rose  from  a  hollow.  The  smell  of  smoke  was  in 
the  air.  In  the  distance,  in  a  golden  light,  the  lit- 
tle, bent  figures  of  old  men  raked  dead  leaves  into 
heaps. 

She  thrilled  to  the  day's  beauty.  If  life,  she 
thought,  were  but  like  this  always !  And  life  would 
be  like  this  but  for  the  Elisha  Chews  and  Annie 
Johnsons.  She  thought  of  Ford ;  she  saw  again  his 
bright  hair,  his  smile,  his  intelligent  eyes.  If  Ford 
but  sat  beside  her  amid  this  beauty!  And  at  the 
thought  she  thrilled  again ;  she  thrilled  and  thrilled, 
like  a  violin,  to  one  long,  exquisite  note.  .  . 

The  sun  sank,  a  luminous  pink  dust  filled  the 
vales,  and  Barbara  rose.  As  she  descended  Green 
Lane,  she  was  accosted  by  Annie  Johnson. 

72 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Are  you  feeling  all  right  now,  Barbara?" 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"How's  Miss  Mary?" 

"  She's  very  well." 

Suddenly  Annie  stiffened,  and  a  look  of  malevo- 
lence made  her  horrible  and  formidable,  like  a 
spider  or  snake. 

"  What's  been  the  matter  with  you,  Barbara,  that 
you've  had  to  have  the  doctor?" 

"  It  was  only  weakness — a  weakness " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  of  course.  We  know  all  about  that. 
But  what  was,  really,  the  matter  ?  " 

Pale,  silent,  with  shocked,  sorrowful  eyes,  Bar- 
bara regarded  the  woman.  She  opened  her  lips  to 
speak;  then,  with  a  shrug,  she  hurried  away. 

"  And  no  more  making  up  to  my  husband,  do  you 
hear  ?  "  cried  Annie  Johnson. 

Barbara  hurried  faster.  She  found  Miss  Mary  in 
the  kitchen,  bending  over  the  yellow  batter  of  a 
cup-cake. 

"  I've  just  seen  Annie  Johnson,"  she  panted.  "  It 
was — it  was  abominable.  Have  you  heard  anything 
— about  me  ?  " 

Miss  Mary  began  to  cry.  "  It's  all  over  the 
town,"  she  wailed. 

"What!" 

"  It's  all  over  the  town.  It's  as  bad  as  that  poor 
Mercer  girl." 

73 


Barbara  Gwynne 


"Oh!" 

Barbara  turned  and  hastened  forth  again.  She 
descended  Green  Lane  with  quick,  resolute  steps. 
Those  wicked  old  women  were  now  assembled,  she 
knew,  in  Brice's  bakery. 

She  flung  open  the  door  of  the  bakery,  she  ad- 
vanced to  the  middle  of  the  shop,  she  frowned  down 
on  the  seated  circle  of  fat,  grey,  dingy  gossips. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  that  I  am  going 
to  leave  this  town.  It  is  you  who  drive  me  away — 
with  your  lies." 

The  gossips  were  frightened.  Their  withered 
mouths  trembled.  They  exchanged  quick  glances 
of  alarm. 

"  You  killed  Rose  jMercer,"  she  resumed.  "  I 
don't  know  whether  what  you  said  about  her  was 
true  or  not.  At  any  rate,  when  she  found  out  what 
you  said,  she  drowned  herself.    Poor  thing ! " 

Barbara  paused.  She  looked  down  at  those  old 
women  motionless  in  their  seats.  With  their  ugly, 
withered,  upturned  faces  and  their  baggy  necks 
they  reminded  her  of  toads.  Her  anger  died  sud- 
denly. Shame  and  disgust  succeeded  it.  Why  had 
she  come  here? 

As  she  retreated  irresolutely  towards  the  door,  a 
VDice  said: 

*'  Chew  left  her  in  the  lurch." 

There  was  a  burst  of  hateful  laughter,  and  her 

74 


Barbara  Gwynnc 

anger  flamed  again.  She  turned,  and  meeting  Annie 
Johnson's  gaze,  she  strode  to  the  woman's  chair. 
Annie,  fascinated  by  terror,  looked  up  at  the  young 
girl;  her  mouth  worked  convulsively;  her  fright- 
ened eyes  blinked. 

"  Why  are  you  so  wicked  ? "  Barbara  cried. 
"  Why  are  you  so  cruel  ?  " 

Her  voice  caught,  she  gulped  and  hastened  to 
the  door,  she  was  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

At  the  doorway  she  stood  with  bowed  head. 
They  saw  her  shoulders  jerk  and  heave.  They 
knew  that  she  was  trying  to  compose  herself  be- 
fore going  out  into  the  street. 

"  I  told  her  how  it  would  end,"  said  Annie 
Johnson. 

Barbara,  without  turning,  without  raising  her 
bowed  head,  said  sadly,  in  a  voice  broken  by  sobs : 

**  I  am  young  and  poor,  but  I  try  to  do  what  is 
right.  You  killed  Rose  Mercer,  you  make  me  run 
away.  Why?  You  wicked  women — ^you  wicked, 
cruel  women — why " 

Her  sobs  overcame  her,  she  rushed  forth. 


75 


VIII 

"  I  AM  going  to  leave  Cinnaminson,"  she  said  to 
Miss  Mary.  "  I'll  pack  to-night  and  start  to-mor- 
row morning." 

Miss  Mary,  still  busy  with  her  cup-cake  batter, 
lamented : 

"  But  if  you  leave  they'll  think  it's  true." 

"  Let  them  think  it's  true !  " 

"  Barbara,  you  can't  live  on  your  salary." 

"  I  can  if  I  board  at  the  Young  Women's  Chris- 
tian Association." 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  your  going  there.  It's  like  the 
poorhouse.  Oh,  why  isn't  there  a  law  to  make  these 
millionaires  pay  their  hands  enough  to  live  on ! " 

Barbara  ran  upstairs  and  got  out  the  little  trunk 
of  cowhide  that  had  been  her  father's.  There  was 
room  enough  in  it;  her  possessions  were  few;  and 
she  packed  carefully  her  books,  her  pictures,  her 
bust  of  Socrates,  her  immaculate  and  cheap  linen, 
and  her  three  little  gowns.    After  dinner  she  set  out, 

76 


Barbara  Gwynne 

pocket-book  in  hand,  to  pay  Dr.  Ford's  bill.  SHe 
told  herself  it  was  to  pay  his  bill.  .  . 

He  lived  on  the  Ridge.  The  Ford  house  and  the 
Chew  house  were  Cinnaminson's  show  places.  But 
the  former  far  surpassed  the  latter  in  grandeur. 

Barbara,  charming  in  her  blue  suit,  entered  an 
enormous  gateway.  Two  great  lamps  surmounted 
the  gateway ;  there  was  a  lodge  to  the  left ;  and  be- 
fore her  a  broad,  pale  drive  curved  away  between 
rows  of  lights.  The  drive  vanished  behind  black 
masses  of  shrubbery,  and  above  the  shrubbery  shone 
the  many  illuminated  windows  of  the  mansion. 

She  ascended  the  curving  path.  On  every  side 
beds  of  flowers  glowed  faintly.  She  came  upon  a 
gravelled  terrace,  mounted  a  marble  stair,  and 
halted  before  a  lofty  door  between  marble  pillars. 

In  response  to  her  ring  a  tall  youth  in  blue  livery 
appeared.  He  held  a  silver  plate  in  his  hand,  and 
his  waistcoat  was  striped  black  and  yellow.  Behind 
him  gleamed  the  rich  colours,  the  subdued  magnifi- 
cence, of  a  very  high  and  spacious  hall. 

"  Will  you  tell  Dr.  Ford,  please,  that  I'd  like  to 
see  him  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  miss.    What  name  shall  I  say?  " 

"Miss  Gwynne." 

With  a  respectful  inclination  he  made  way  for 
her  to  enter,  then  swung  to  the  great  door  with  a 
skilful  flourish.     He  led  her  across  the  tessellated 

77 


Barbara  Gwynne 

marble  floor  and  set  an  armchair  beside  a  fire  of 
birch  logs  flaming  in  a  marble  chimney. 

His  coat-tails,  adorned  with  brass  buttons, 
flapped  gracefully  as  he  left  her.  Another  tall 
youth  in  blue,  a  counterpart  of  himself,  made  a 
low,  hissing  sound  from  the  stairway.  He  replied, 
there  was  a  moment  of  restrained  conversation,  and 
the  two  servants  separated  and  disappeared. 

Barbara  put  her  slim  feet  on  the  fender.  The 
beauty  of  this  spacious,  lofty,  splendid  hall  glad- 
dened her  heart.  Eastern  rugs,  cream,  old  rose  and 
blue,  lay  here  and  there  upon  the  marble  floor.  In 
enormous  jars  yellow  chrysanthemums  drooped 
their  long  and  shaggy  locks.  There  were  old  black 
chests  whose  elaborate  carvings  seemed  to  writhe. 
There  were  great  chairs  of  dark  and  lustrous  wood, 
some  upholstered  in  the  pale,  faded  hues  of  old 
brocade,  some  in  stamped  leather  with  tarnished, 
half-obliterated  gilding.  Very  wide  and  very  shal- 
low, the  marble  stairway  swept  upward  in  a  stately 
curve.  She  Hfted  her  head  and  saw  the  light,  pure 
columns  of  a  marble  gallery  running  round  the 
hall's  three  sides.  A  large  tapestry  had  faded  to  a 
silver  grey  tone.  And  higher  still  were  windows  of 
stained  glass  dimly  agleam. 

Ford,  in  evening  dress,  appeared  in  the  gallery. 
Leaning  his  elbows  on  the  balustrade,  he  smiled 
down  gaily  at  her.    The  sharp  black  and  white  of 

78 


Barbara  Gwynne 

his  costume  made  his  face  look  very  ruddy  and  his 
hair  very  bright.  Between  thumb  and  forefinger  he 
held  a  cigarette  in  a  long  tube  of  gold  and  amber. 

"  Hello !  "  he  cried.    "  You're  all  right,  I  hope?  " 

"  Yes/'  said  Barbara.     "  I've  come  to  pay  my  bill." 

He  laughed  and  hastened  to  her,  but  the  passage 
of  the  marble  gallery,  the  descent  of  the  winding 
stair,  the  crossing  of  the  great  hall,  seemed  to  take 
him  a  long  time.    She  waited,  happy  and  ashamed. 

"  So  you  have  come  to  pay  me,  eh  ?  But  there 
was  no  hurry,"  said  the  young  man. 

He  seated  himself  beside  her,  poked  the  fire,  then 
leaned  back  and  regarded  her  with  his  charming 
smile. 

"  You  see,"  said  Barbara,  *'  I  am  going  away." 

"  Going  away  ?     For  good  ?  " 

She  nodded.  "  I  suppose  I'll  be  lonely."  She 
frowned  at  the  fire.  Then,  "  It's  better  to  be  lonely 
than  to  have  friends ! "  she  cried. 

^'Why?" 

She  glanced  at  him.  His  elbows  on  his  knees,  he 
bent  forward,  very  blond  in  his  black  and  white 
dress.  The  cigarette  in  its  long  tube  emitted  an 
endless  blue  thread  of  aromatic  smoke.  He  gazed 
at  the  flame  with  a  strange  smile. 

"Why?  "he  repeated. 

A  frown  of  deep  thought  puckered  her  brow,  and 
she  repHed  slowly: 

79 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"You  try  to  be  honourable  and  good;  but  your 
friends  do  vile  things  to  you;  and  you  feel  as 
ashamed  as  though  you  had  done  vile  things  your- 
self." 

"  But  those  who  do  vile  things  to  us  are  not  our 
friends,"  said  he. 

**  Well,  we  think  they  are  till "    She  gave  an 

embarrassed  laugh.  "  No,  to  be  happy,  you  must  have 

no  friends — like  a  nun,  you  know — serene But 

I  can't  explain  it.    I  suppose  you  think  I'm  silly?  " 

*'  No,  I  think  you  are  intelligent." 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  It  is  true.  Why  are  you  going  to  leave  Cinna- 
minson  ?  " 

"  Those  gossips,"  she  stammered,  "  they  have " 

"  I  see.  You  are  leaving  Cinnaminson  on  ac- 
count of  gossip." 

Barbara  flushed.  "  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice,  "if  you  have  heard  anything." 

"I?    Heavens,  no!" 

"  Nothing  is  true  that  they  say."  Her  lip  began  to 
quiver ;  she  bit  it  resolutely.  Then,  with  a  gulp,  she 
resumed,  "  Nevertheless  their  lies  make  me  un- 
happy." 

"What  have  they  said?" 

*'  I  hate  to  tell  you." 

"Why?" 

"  I  don't  know.    Do  you  know  Mr.  Chew  ?  " 
80 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Yes,  slightly." 

"  He  took  me  about  a  lot  in  the  summer.  Now  I 
have  quarrelled  with  him,  and  he  has  gone  away. 
They  say  my  illness — they  say — no,  I  can't  tell  you." 

She  gazed  into  the  fire.  Ford,  blowing  great 
clouds  of  smoke,  regarded  her  with  his  strange  smile. 

"  Dinner  is  served,  sir." 

A  very  old  man  in  evening  dress  drew  back  a  cur- 
tain upon  a  vista  of  faint  splendours ;  then  stood  in 
an  erect,  stiff  attitude,  chin  high  in  air,  holding 
embroidered  brown  folds  aside. 

Ford,  rising,  put  out  his  cigarette.  '*  Look  h®re, 
dine  with  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Dine  now  ?    It's  nine  o'clock,"  said  Barbara. 

**  Lots  of  people  dine  at  nine.    Stay,  do." 

She  hesitated.  The  shadow  on  the  beautiful  face, 
which  was  still  only  the  face  of  a  child,  told  him 
of  the  debate  that  went  on  in  her  heart.  Suddenly 
she  looked  up,  and  in  her  troubled  eyes  he  read  the 
pathetic  search  that  a  maid's  eyes  make  in  a  man's 
— the  pathetic,  timid  search  for  sincerity,  truth, 
fair  play. 

"  Oh,  you  must  stay." 

He  began  to  draw  off  her  blue  coat. 

"  Hat,  too,"  he  insisted. 

Handing  him  her  hat,  she  touched  her  blue-black 
hair  before  an  oval  mirror,  and  they  entered  a  dining- 
room  that  was  in  shadow  save  for  the  white  table, 

8r 


Barbara  Gwynne 

upon  which  the  many  candles  of  two  silver  cande- 
labra threw  a  flood  of  soft,  clear  light.  The  tall 
young  footmen  hastened  to  and  fro  silently.  One  of 
them  drew  out  her  chair,  and  she  sat  down  with  a 
confused  impression  of  carved  and  gilded  wood,  of 
rich  pictures  in  gold  frames,  and  of  black,  luminous 
floor  spaces  as  slippery  as  ice  between  pale  Eastern 
rugs. 

She  felt  very  small  and  slim  in  her  armchair.  She 
buried  her  flushed  face  in  a  crystal  bowl  of  red  roses. 
She  looked  at  Ford  above  the  flowers  with  a  smile. 

There  were  tiny  oysters  before  her,  and  since  she 
had  eaten  at  six  nothing  but  a  slice  of  toast,  she  en- 
joyed the  oysters  greatly.  They  gave  her  an  appe- 
tite for  the  soup  that  followed,  a  soup  so  pale  and 
transparent  that  she  expected  it  to  be  insipid;  but 
no,  its  flavour  was  at  once  delicate  and  powerful,  as 
though  a  hundred  meats  and  vegetables  had  been 
sacrificed  that  just  their  finest,  subtlest  juices  might 
be  given  to  that  exquisite  consomme. 

"Where  do  you  think  you'll  go?"  said  Ford. 

"  To  the  Young  Women's  Christian  Association, 
if  I  can  get  in." 

"  Oh,  you're  not  leaving  Smollett's  ?  " 

"  No ;  of  course  not." 

"  I'll  miss  you,"  he  said.  "  But  I  can  see  you 
still?" 

"  Sometimes,  perhaps,  you*ll  want  a  new  neck- 
82 


Barbara  Gwynne 

tie.  .  ."  She  hid  her  face  in  the  roses,  then 
looked  up  and  laughed. 

Three  small  red  fish  were  set  before  him  in  a 
silver  platter.  They  were  surrounded  by  sections  of 
orange  in  a  red-brown  sauce.  The  tart  orange,  the 
rich  sauce,  the  delicate  mullet  itself— Barbara  thought 
that  she  had  never  tasted  anything  so  delicious. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  You  say  youVe  always  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage. 
Well,  now  is  your  chance." 

"  My  chance  to  starve !  " 

The  aged  butler  bent  respectfully  over  his  chair ; 
there  was  a  murmured  conversation  about  wine. 

"  The  'go  brut"  said  the  young  man,  and  he 
turned  again  to  Barbara. 

"  '  Starve ! '  You  wouldn't  starve.  The  first 
manager  who  saw  you  would  gobble  you  up.  And 
besides  your  looks  there  is  your  talent.  I'll  never 
forget  your  reading  of  *  The  Ugly  Duckling.'  It 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes." 

"  Nonsense.  It  was  the  beauty  of  the  story  that 
did  that." 

With  a  course  of  lamb,  new  peas  and  tiny  new 
potatoes,  her  glass  was  filled  with  cold,  clear  wine. 
She  had  tasted  champagne  before,  but  never  cham- 
pagne like  this. 

"  It  is  so  pure,"  she  said,  "  so  pure." 

"  But  tell  me,  why  do  you  persist  in  this  dog's 

83 


Barbara  Gwynne 

life?  Don*t  you  know  that  Smollett  is  robbing  you 
of  your  youth  ?  Don't  you  know  that  at  twenty-five 
you'll  be  old,  with  thin,  sallow  cheeks,  a  sunken 
chest,   wrinkles  ?  " 

"True,"  she  admitted,  in  a  low,  troubled  voice. 
"  There's  a  girl  in  my  aisle.  She  was  so  pretty 
two  years  ago.    If  you  could  see  her  now ! " 

"  Give  the  life  up." 

"  That's  easier  said  than  done.'* 

"  If  I  were  a  beautiful  girl  like  you,  I'd  do  any- 
thing to  get  out  of  it." 

He  regarded  her  thoughtfully. 

"Anything,"  he  repeated.  "Anything.  I'd  sell 
my  beauty  to  a  rich  old  man." 

"  Would  you  ?  "  she  said  coldly.  Shocked,  even 
disgusted,  she  frowned  down  at  her  plate,  trying 
to  collect  her  thoughts,  which  had  fled  like  fright- 
ened birds. 

"  I  certainly  would."  He  felt  a  little  ashamed, 
yet  the  conversation  amused  him. 

Barbara  spoke  slowly.  "  Then,  if  you  were  poor, 
like  me,  I  suppose  you'd  sell  yourself  to  an  old 
woman  ?  " 

In  the  flash  of  her  contemptuous  glance  he  laughed. 

"  No,"  he  admitted.  "  I  see  your  point.  And  I 
withdraw  the  rich  old  man.  But  there  are  always 
lots  of  rich  young  men  about." 

"Then  would  you,  if  you  were  poor,"  she  per- 

84 


Barbara  Gwynne 

sisted,  "  sell  yourself,  in  order  not  to  have  to  work, 
to  a  rich  woman,  even  if  she  were  young?" 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  no.  It  would  seem  too  ignoble. 
And  would  it  seem  just  as  ignoble  to  you  as  it  does 
to  me?" 

"Of  course!"  Her  air  was  at  once  indignant 
and  triumphant. 

"  Well,  forgive  me,"  he  said.  "  I  have  been  talk- 
ing nonsense." 

"  I  should  think  so !  "  And  Barbara,  with  a  lit- 
ne  sigh  of  relief,  dismissed  the  nonsense  that  he 
had  been  talking  from  her  girlish  mind. 

The  butler  brought  in  a  covered  silver  platter. 
Lifting  the  lid,  he  bowed  and  displayed,  silently  and 
impressively,  a  long-billed  bird  that  lay  on  its  back 
with  drawn-up  legs.  Ford  nodded,  and  the  butler 
retired  to  carve  the  woodcock  at  the  sideboard. 

"  Why  are  you  smiling  ?  "  the  young  man  asked. 

"I  don't  know.     Was  I  smiling?" 

"Yes.     Why?" 

"  Well,  it  seems  odd,  so  much  pomp,  every  day, 
for  just  one  person." 

"But  I  don't  live  like  this,"  he  said.  "I  live 
very  simply  at  the  Lester  Institute.  This  is  my 
mother's  way  of  living." 

Barbara  tasted  her  rich  and  delicate  breast  of 
woodcock.    Then  she  sipped  her  cold  wine. 

"What  is  it  like  at  the  Lester  Institute?" 

85 


Barbara   Gwynne 

"  Oh,  there  are  a  dozen  of  us  there,  under  Bar- 
rows, trying  to  find  cures  for  consumption,  sleep- 
ing sickness,  tetanus  and  other  diseases." 

"  Is  the  work  interesting?  " 

"  It  is  intensely  interesting." 

"  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  we  have  recently  discovered 
tliat  almost  every  disease  is  due  to  a  certain  germ. 
jMan  is  like  a  plant,  and  as  this  or  that  insect  over- 
runs a  plant  and  destroys  it,  so  this  or  that  germ 
attacks  and  destroys  man.  We  know  a  few  of  man's 
germs;  we  can  kill  them;  and  by  killing  them  we 
cure  the  diseases  they  have  caused.  But  of  course 
there  are  hundreds  of  diseases  that  as  yet  we  know 
nothing  about.  At  the  Lester  Institute  those  dis- 
eases are  studied.  We  try  to  find  their  germs,  you 
know,  and  after  we  find  the  germs,  then  we  find  the 
means  to  kill  them." 

"  But  how?    How  do  you  go  about  it?" 

"  We  experiment  on  animals." 

"But  how?" 

"  Among  the  millions  of  germs  in  existence,  you 
choose  one — the  one,  say,  that  you  suspect  causes 
malaria.  You  grow  this  germ,  and  it  soon  becomes 
a  great  colony.  Then  you  inject  it  into  a  guinea 
pig's  blood.  If  nothing  happens  to  the  guinea  pig, 
you  know  that  you  have  chosen  the  wrong  germ,  and 
you  try  another  one  on  another  guinea  pig." 

86 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Barbara  mused  a  moment. 

"  Sometimes,"  she  said,  "  you  find  the  right  germ, 
eh?" 

"  Sometimes  you  find  the  right  germ,"  he  sol- 
emnly agreed,  "  and  then  you  gain  immortal  fame, 
you  save  thousands  of  lives." 

"  You  do  like  your  work,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Like  it  ?  I  love  it.  What  would  I  be  without 
it?  Vice  is  so  beautiful.  .  .  But  work  like  ours 
is  such  a  joy,  it  promises  such  good  to  mankind. 
.  .  At  the  institute  we  are  all  glad  to  live  like 
anchorites,  so  as  to  come  to  our  work,  every  morn- 
ing, at  our  very  best." 

A  smoking  souMee  was  served  hastily. 

"  And  you,"  said  the  young  man,  "  you'd  make 
an  actress.   Then  why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  how  to  set  about  it.  It  isn't 
so  easy  as  you  think !  " 

"  Take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  Go  to  New  York. 
See  all  the  managers.    You'd  be  sure  to  get  on." 

She  mused.  "  It  frightens  me,  the  thought  of 
going  to  New  York  alone." 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  as  easy  as  remaining  at  Smollett's, 
losing  your  youth.  But  how  exciting  it  would  be ! 
It  would  be  life." 

From  the  superb  dessert  he  gave  her  a  large  peach. 

"  You  have  no  idea,"  he  resumed,  "  of  the  joy 
work  is — ^work,  I  mean,  not  slavery — it  is  slavery  at 

87 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Smollett's.  Why,  if  you  become  an  actress,  you'll 
be  so  happy  that  your  present  life  will  seem  to  have 
been  hell.    Work  .  ;.   .  there's  nothing  like  it." 

The  butler  bent  over  him,  and  the  young  man 
said: 

"  Yes,  we'll  have  our  coffee  out  there  by  the  fire." 

They  rose,  the  butler  held  back  stiffly  again  the 
brown  curtains,  and  crossing  the  spacious  hall,  they 
resumed  their  former  seats  beneath  the  high  white 
chimney. 

"  I  love  this  hall,"  said  Barbara. 

"  My  grandfather,"  he  answered,  "  brought  it 
from  Italy." 

A  little  table  was  set  between  them.  On  it  a 
wax  candle  flamed  beside  a  silver  cigarette  box. 
The  butler  returned  with  silver  filters  of  coffee,  and 
Barbara,  smoking  her  first  cigarette,  watched  the 
clear  fluid  drip  slowly  into  the  tall  glasses. 

"  When  do  you  leave  Cinnaminson  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To-morrow.    I've  got  to  leave  to-morrow." 

"Got  to?    Why?" 

She  told  him  of  her  visit  to  the  bakery. 

"  But  it  was  stupid  to  go  there ! "  he  cried. 
"  Don't  you  understand  those  women  ?  In  youth 
they  were  vicious.  Now  they  are  old,  and  their  days 
of  vice  are  over,  but  their  minds  run  enviously  on 
vice,  vice,  as  a  thirsty  man's  mind  runs  on  water,  and 
Ihey   suspect   the   young   of   doing   all    that   they 

88 


Barbara  Gwynne 


would  do  so  gladly  if  they  but  had  the  chance 
again." 

Eleven  o'clock  sounded,  and  she  rose  hurriedly. 
He  insisted  on  sending  her  home  in  a  carriage,  and 
a  tiny  brougham  soon  was  heard  without. 

"  Well,  is  it  New  York  or  not  ? "  he  asked,  as  he 
leaned  in  through  the  brougham's  open  door  and 
took  her  hand. 

Her  voice  came  from  the  darkest  corner.  "  What 
would  you  do?" 

"  New  York,  the  stage !  "  he  cried,  relinquishing 
her  hand. 

"  New  York  it  is,  then,  since  you're  so  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  me." 

"  But  I  come  often  to  New  York." 

"  Tell  him  to  start,  please.    It's  very  late." 

"  But  you'll  write  to  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"Why  should  I?" 

"If  you  got  hard  up,  you  know,  over  there 
alone " 

"  Tell  him  to  start,  please." 

"But  will  you  write?" 

"You  don't  want  me  to." 

"I  do.    Will  you?" 

She  laughed  again. 

"  Perhaps— if  I  get  hard  up— «." 


89 


IX 


Mrs.  Woodford  and  Jerome  S.  McWade  sat  in  the 
private  office  of  the  beauty  parlour. 

The  beauty  parlour,  in  its  seven  weeks  of  life,  had 
prospered.  The  private  office  had  been  added  to  it, 
and  an  assistant  with  a  complexion  singularly  pure 
had  been  engaged. 

"  I  know  fifteen  dollars  a  week  is  generous,"  said 
Mrs.  Woodford,  "  but  I  understood " 

"  I'll  raise  you  to  eighteen  the  first  of  the  year." 

"  But  I  understood,  Jerome,  that  I  was  to  be 
your  partner ! " 

Through  the  peep-hole,  in  the  silence  that  en- 
sued, the  assistant  could  be  heard  at  work.  The 
assistant  was  massaging  the  flabby  and  wrinkled 
face  of  Elisha  Chew's  mother.  Beneath  the  deli- 
cate slap-slap  sound  of  finger-tips  on  flesh,  Mrs. 
Chew's  voice  rumbled  earnestly,  indicating  the  lines 
to  be  eradicated  and  the  hollows  to  be  filled,  and 
recurring  again  and  again  to  a  kind  of  pouch  be- 
neath the  chin  that  was  to  be  taken  entirely  away. 

90 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  assistant  agreed  that  all  these  facial  renovations 
were  feasible,  but  at  regular  intervals,  in  a  high, 
pleasant,  yet  somewhat  reproachful  voice,  she  ven- 
tured the  reminder,  "  But  not  in  one  treatment !  " — 
Not  in  one  treatment:  the  phrase  had  already  be- 
come the  beauty  parlour's  refrain.  It  sounded 
regularly,  like  a  chorus,  through  all  the  daily  slap- 
slap  of  massage  and  hiss  of  face-steamers. 

Jerome  S.  McWade  had  assumed  a  stony  look.  He 
hoped  that  Mrs.  Woodford  would  read  in  this  look  a 
kind  superior's  pain  under  an  unmerited  aspersion. 
She  read  in  it,  however,  only  the  cunning  of  a 
money  grubber.  Yet,  with  a  dry  laugh,  she  submit- 
ted. She  believed  she  could  conquer,  could  compel 
him  to  make  her  his  partner;  but  in  an  issue  that 
she  deemed  ignoble  she  had  no  wish  to  fight. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  said.  "  Have  it  your  own 
way,  Jerome." 

He  was  tremendously  relieved.  "  You  see,"  he 
explained,  "  you've  got  no  capital.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  arrange  a  fair  partnership.  I  doubt, 
indeed,  if  it  could  legally  be  done." 

He  rose  and  tiptoed  to  the  peep-hole.  In  the 
pink  and  white  operating-room  Mrs.  Chew,  a  mass 
of  fat,  reclined  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  being 
shaved.  Bending  over  her,  the  assistant  kneaded 
her  face  with  vigour.  Sometimes,  under  a  knead- 
ing unusually  severe,  Mrs.  Chew  would  cease  her 

91 


Barbara  Gwynnc 


rumble  of  talk  and  screw  up  her  flabby  countenance 
in  pain.  Then  the  assistant,  recoiling  two  or  three 
steps,  would  cry: 

"  There !  YouVe  brought  back  the  very  wrinkles 
I've  been  trying  to  work  out!  The  face  perfectly 
relaxed,  please." 

"  Miss  Maynard  seems  competent,"  said  Jerome, 
returning  to  his  chair. 

Mrs.  Woodford  took  from  the  table  a  bright 
instrument  of  nickel  that  resembled  a  coal-scuttle. 

"  Jerome,"  she  said,  "  I  am  afraid  we've  made  a 
mistake  with  this  hair-drier,  too." 

"Won't  it  work,  either?" 

"  No.  The  hand  power  idea  was  good  in  theory, 
but  in  practice  it's  no  better  than  the  water  power." 

"  Let's  see,"  he  said. 

The  drier,  which  had  been  bought  through  a  lying 
magazine  advertisement,  consisted  of  an  alcohol  lamp 
and  a  fan.  The  fan  ran  by  hand.  Mrs.  Woodford  lit 
the  lamp,  she  held  the  wide  mouth  of  the  glittering 
contrivance  to  Jerome's  face,  she  turned  the  handle 
of  the  fan  with  might  and  main.  And  he  felt  on  his 
cheek,  instead  of  the  hot  and  powerful  blast  pic- 
tured in  the  lying  magazine,  only  a  faint,  cool 
zephyr. 

"  Turn  harder." 

"  I'm  turning  now,"  she  panted,  "  as  hard  as 
ever  I  can." 

92 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  pushed  the  drier  from  him.  "  Throw  it  in 
the  ash-barrel,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"  I  suppose  we'll  have  to  get  an  expensive  elec- 
tric drier,  after  all." 

"  That  is  what  I  advocated  from  the  first." 

Mrs.  Woodford  did  not  contradict  this  lie,  and  with 
a  pompous  air  he  bent  over  the  correspondence  on 
his  roll-top  desk  of  yellow  oak.  She  regarded  him 
with  a  wistful  smile,  then  she  sighed.  She  wore  a 
beautiful  black  gown  of  silk-cashmere;  filmy  and 
clinging,  it  gave  her  the  figure  of  a  robust  girl.  But 
the  face  above  the  gown  had  none  of  girlhood's  fresh 
and  delicate  charm.  The  face  was  painted,  the  lips 
rouged,  the  carefully  curled  hair  was  harsh  and 
wiry. 

"  I'm  sorry  I  made  you  lose  that  twenty  dollars, 
Jerome." 

"  It's  all  right.     No  fault  of  yours." 

"  I  had  faith  in  the  World  Magazine,"  she  cried 
indignantly.  "And  for  pay  they  help  thieves  to 
rob!" 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Jerome,  "  the  more  fools  we." 

She  returned  to  the  work-room.  The  operator 
had  finished  Mrs.  Chew's  massage,  and  was  now 
applying   cosmetics   delicately. 

"You  need  an  astringent,"  the  operator  said. 
"  I  recommend  a  large  four-dollar  bottle  of  our 
Fatimah.    You  apply  it  night  and  morning." 

93 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"An  astringent?"  murmured  Mrs.  Chew,  and 
with  a  frown  she  sat  erect.  But  the  reflection  in 
the  mirror  of  her  brilHant  colouring,  the  rosy  cheeks, 
the  scarlet  lips,  caused  her  to  smile.  "  An  astrin- 
gent ?  "  she  repeated,  in  a  gentler  voice. 

"  Yes ;  to  tighten  up  the  loose  flesh." 

And  the  assistant  poked  daintily,  with  her  slim 
forefinger,  the  pouch  beneath  the  other's  chin. 
Mrs.  Chew  watched  the  pouch  in  the  glass.  In- 
dubitably loose,  it  swung  to  and  fro. 

"  You  see  ? ''  said  the  assistant.  "  This  must  be 
tightened  up." 

"  Well,  send  me  a  bottle." 

Mrs.  Chew  paid,  tipped  the  girl  fifty  cents,  and 
waddled  forth,  lifting  her  skirts  coquettishly  above 
her  thick  ankles. 

Jerome's  face  appeared  at  the  peep-hole.  *'  Do 
we  need  any  supplies  ?  " 

"You  had  better  get,"  said  Mrs.  Woodford, 
"  some  Miramar  brunette  powder.  We  sold  four 
boxes  yesterday." 

The  face  at  the  peep-hole  frowned.  "  We  ought 
to  make  our  own  powder.  It's  nothing  but  scented 
chalk." 

And  Jerome,  a  busy  day  before  him,  sped  like  the 
wind  out  Peanut  Street.  He  stopped  at  Smollett's 
to  give  the  perfumery  buyer  two  opera  tickets,  and 
the  buyer  bought  fifty  jars  of  Zenobia  Cream.    At 

94 


Barbara  Gwynne 

the  drug  trust,  though  he  got  no  orders,  Mr.  Samp- 
son accepted  a  half-dozen  boxes  of  Zenobia  Soap  on 
Mrs.  Sampson's  behalf.  And  in  Bloomingdale's, 
very  carelessly,  he  mentioned  that  he  desired  the 
recipe  of  Miramar  Powder  in  all  three  colours. 

"  I  know  the  Miramar  agent,"  said  Blooming- 
dale's  buyer.  "  I  dined  with  him  last  week.  I 
think  he  can  be  approached." 

"  Well,  those  three  recipes,"  mused  Jerome, 
"  would  be  worth  to  me " 

The  buyer  nodded.    "  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

It  was  now  noon,  and,  since  he  had  breakfasted 
before  seven,  Jerome  hastened  with  a  splendid  ap- 
petite to  Wartog's  Spa,  his  favourite  lunching 
place:  a  haunt  of  business  men. 

The  vestibule  of  the  Spa  had  on  the  right  a  cage 
containing  a  beautiful  cashier.  On  the  left,  before 
the  marble  and  gold  facade  of  an  immense  soda 
fountain,  half-a-dozen  business  men  sucked  gravely, 
through  straws,  sweet,  white,  foaming  drinks. 

Beyond  spread  the  Spa  proper:  nothing,  at  this 
hour,  but  a  black  stew  of  business  men.  The  Spa 
reverberated,  it  belched  forth  powerful  and  unpleas- 
ant odours.  But  Jerome,  pulling  down  his  hat, 
plunged  fearlessly  in. 

He  fought  his  way  through  the  outer  press,  he 
came  to  the  heart  of  the  Spa.  There,  perched  on 
very   high    stools — "  pegs "    in    the   vernacular — a 

95 


Barbara  Gwynne 

hundred  thin,  pale,  unshaven  business  men  fed 
swiftly  and  alertly  at  long  counters. 

There  were  no  vacant  seats.  Many  ate  standing. 
But  Jerome  preferred  a  peg,  and  after  ten  minutes 
he  secured  one.  His  lunch  consisted  of  buckwheat 
cakes  and  mince  pie,  washed  down  with  cafe-au-lait. 
The  proprietor  of  the  Spa,  while -he  was  eating,  con- 
descended to  pause  a  moment  beneath  his  lofty  peg. 

"Well,  how's  the  boy?" 

"  Fine.  And  what  a  fine  trade  you've  got  here, 
Mr.  Wartog!" 

"Oh,  so-so."  Mr.  Wartog,  surveying  his  steW 
of  business  men,  swelled  with  pride.    "  Oh,  so-so." 

"  Why  don't  you  enlarge  the  place  ?  " 

"  Enlarge  ?  "  Wartog  laughed  scornfully.  He 
waved  his  hand  towards  the  business  men  who  stood, 
in  huddled,  swaying  masses,  balancing  full  cups  and 
plates.  "  The  street  railways  tell  you  that  the  strap- 
hanger pays  the  dividends.   Well,  it's  the  same  here." 

"  But,"  said  Jerome,  "  if  there's  no  accommoda- 
tion, won't  the  trade  go  elsewhere  ?  " 

"  Elsewhere  the  accommodation's  the  same." 

"That's  so." 

Jerome  tipped  the  waitress,  slid  down  to  earth,  and 
stuck  a  toothpick  in  his  mouth.  Two  business  men 
nearly  overset  him  in  their  struggle  for  his  still  warm 
peg.    Leaping  aside,  he  set  out  for  the  chicken  farm. 

As,  toothpick  in  mouth,  Jerome  hastened  up  Pea- 

96 


Barbara   Gwynne 

nut  Street,  he  thought  tenderly  of  Barbara  Gwynne. 
He  had  been  away  for  five  days,  selling  Zenobia 
Cream  in  Carbondale,  Oil  City  and  Millville,  and 
not  until  this  morning  had  he  heard  of  Barbara's 
illness.  Should  he  call  at  Miss  Mary's  on  the  way 
to  the  chicken  farm?    No. 

And  he  glanced  down  at  his  boots,  unpolished  for 
three  days.  He  slapped  his  sleeve,  and  from  the 
unbrushed  cloth  a  cloud  of  dust  rose  up.  Passing 
his  hand  over  cheek  and  chin,  he  heard  the  neg- 
lected beard's  loud  rustle. 

No,  he  would  not  call  on  Barbara  Gwynne.  .  . 
And  the  young  girl's  fresh  beauty  made  him,  for  a 
moment,  ashamed  of  his  slovenliness.  When,  though, 
at  Wartog's  Spa  or  Silver  Grill,  had  he  ever  seen  a 
business  man  better  shaved,  better  brushed,  than 
himself?  Business  men,  naturally,  were  far  too 
busy  for  anything  of  that  sort.  And  Jerome,  a 
business  man,  strode  on  with  all  his  confidence  re- 
stored, supporting  his  slovenliness  indifferently,  al- 
most proudly,  like  those  Arthurian  knights  who 
forswore  ablutions  until  the  ending  of  their  quest. 

As  he  had  assured  Bill  Stroud  that  he  would  not 
visit  the  chicken  farm  again  that  week,  Jerome  en- 
tered the  garden  cautiously.  He  tiptoed  down  the 
neglected  path.  Then,  in  order  to  take  the  negro 
completely  by  surprise,  he  burst  like  an  explosion 
into  the  chicken  house.     But  there  was  no  one  there. 

97 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  crossed  the  barnyard  to  Bill's  little  cottage. 
Bill  made  no  answer  to  his  ring,  and  he  opened  the 
door  and  entered.  Though  the  October  afternoon 
was  mild  and  fine,  the  roaring  stove  shone  like  a 
sunset,  the  black  iron  changed  to  a  translucent  rose. 
The  heat  of  the  little  room  was  intolerable;  intol- 
erable, too,  the  odour,  the  keen,  sweetish  odour, 
the  odour  of  Bill.  And  above  Bill  slept.  His 
snores,  regular  and  calm,  enraged  Jerome. 

An  ear-splitting  shout  awoke  the  negro,  and  he  de- 
scended from  his  chamber,  stretching  and  yawning. 
At  sight  of  Jerome  he  started,  and  his  yawns  ceased. 

"  This  is  a  nice  way  to  look  after  my  chickens !  " 

"Well,  Mr.  Jerome,  I " 

"  No  wonder  the  farm  is  losing  money ! " 

"  iMr.  Jerome,"  said  Bill,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I'm 
sick." 

"  Don't  lie  now.  Don't  make  matters  worse  by 
lying." 

"  Who's  a-lyin'?  "  shouted  Bill.  He  glowered  at 
his  employer,  then  turned  and  stamped  out  of  the 
cottage. 

Jerome,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  followed. 

"  Hold  on.  Bill  I  "  he  called,  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

But  Bill  shook  off  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Sneakin'  round  here.  .  .  Said  he  wouldn't 
come  till  next  week.  .  .  Can't  stand  this  sneakin' 
round.   .    .   It's  time  for  me  to  quit." 

98 


Barbara   Gwynne 

"  Here,  Bill,  have  a  cigarette." 

"  It's  time  to  quit.  .  .  Can't  stand  no  more  of  it." 

Jerome,  striding  along  beside  the  negro,  extended 
his  cigarettes  impatiently.  He  was,  to  tell  the  truth, 
fond  of  Bill.  Bill  would  never  get  on.  Bill  was  as 
unreliable  as  a  babe,  he  could  no  more  look  out  for 
himself  than  a  babe,  and  Jerome,  against  his  own 
better  judgment,  liked  him  and  protected  him. 

"Cigarette?" 

Bill,  haughtily  accepting  at  last  a  hard,  cheap 
cigarette,  followed  Jerome  into  the  chicken  house. 
The  incubators'  thermometers  indicated  the  right 
temperature,  and  in  one  incubator  a  few  chicks  had 
just  been  hatched. 

"  Poor  Httle  things,"  said  Bill. 

With  closed  eyes,  their  fine,  pale  down  still  wet, 
the  chicks  lay  upon  the  eggs  in  broken  attitudes; 
and  it  was  strange  how,  as  with  overdriven  ma- 
chines, their  violent  heart-beats  shook  them  visibly. 
Now  they  rose  and  tottered,  blindly  and  feebly, 
over  the  uneven  floor  of  eggs,  and  the  next  moment 
they  fell,  panting,  utterly  prostrated  with  the  fatigue 
of  that  journey  of  five  or  six  inches. 

Jerome,  coming  on  a  hen  surrounded  by  a  dozen 
tiny  chicks,  paused  and  frowned. 

"How  about  this.  Bill?!" 

"  She  was  settin'  and  settin'.  She  set  for  days 
and  days  on  nothin'.     I'd  throw  her  off  the  nest, 

99 


Barbara  Gwynne 

and  she'd  fall  like  a  rag  and  begin  to  set  again  right 
on  the  ground  where  she  dropped." 

"  You  took  pity  on  her,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  took  pity  on  her.'' 

Puffing  vigorously  on  their  hard  cigarettes,  they 
gazed  down  at  the  hen.  She  had  an  air  of  absorp- 
tion, content,  happiness.  She  talked  to  her  yellow 
chicks  with  a  cluck  almost  musical,  and,  to  teach 
them  to  peck,  she  kept  taking  up  and  dropping 
jerkily  again  the  grains  of  millet  scattered  over 
the  floor.  Grouped  about  her  beak,  they  imitated 
her  quick,  sharp  movements;  only  they  ate  the 
millet,  whilst  she  ate  none  of  it.  She,  the  mother, 
would  never  eat  until  their  hunger  was  first  satisfied. 

There  was  a  basket  of  eggs  on  the  bench.  They 
were  dated,  and  the  egg-dating  stamp  lay  beside  the 
basket.  Jerome  took  up  egg  after  egg,  studying 
their  dates  silently.  One  was  dated  the  eleventh  of 
October,  another  the  twelfth,  a  third  the  fourteenth, 
and  more  than  a  dozen  bore  the  date  of  the  fifteenth. 
Yet  to-day  was  but  the  ninth. 

"  Be  careful  about  this,"  said  Jerome  sternly. 
"  Remember  last  year's  tests." 

At  great  personal  inconvenience  he  had  tested  last 
year,  upon  his  own  palate,  a  hundred  eggs  that  ranged 
in  age  from  twenty-four  hours  up  to  three  weeks. 
Having  eaten  the  eggs  soft-boiled — the  strictest  test 
— he  was  in  a  position  to  speak  with  authority.  His 
lOO 


Barbara  Gwyhn6 

dictum  was  that  a  new-laid  egg  could  conscien- 
tiously be  dated  ahead  seven  days,  no  more. 

"  Be  careful  about  this,"  he  repeated.  "  Don't  go 
too  far." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Bill.  ''  Trust  me ;  I  know  my 
business." 

"  Nothing  of  this  kind  goes  to  Miss  Barbara 
Gwynne,  I  hope." 

"  Miss  Barbara  Gwynne  ?  " 

"  Don't  tell  me  you've  stopped  taking  her  those 
new-laids ! " 

"  But,  Mr.  Jerome,  Miss  Barbara  Gwynne's  run 
off!" 

Jerome  began  to  tremble. 

"  What  the— what  the  devil " 

But  he  stopped  short,  ashamed  of  his  grief- 
stricken  voice,  embarrassed  by  Bill's  astonishment 
and  pity. 

"  She's  run  off  to  New  York.  She's  goin'  on  the 
stage,  sir.     Ain't  you  heard  ?  " 

"When  did  this  happen?" 

"Yesterday  or  the  day  before,  Mr.  Jerome." 

"  Do  you  know  what  the  trouble  was  ?  " 

"  I  only  know  what  people  say — Mrs.  Annie 
Johnson  and  that  lot.  Of  course  I  couldn't  swear 
to  nothin'." 

Jerome  regarded  vacantly  the  egg  which  he  held 
in  his  hand,  an  egg  dated  nine  days  ahead. 

lOI 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  What  do  they  say  ?  '*  he  muttered. 

"  It  seems  that  Chew  feller  got  her  in  trouble  and 
she  ran  off  on  account  of  the  talk." 

"Has  there  been  much  talk?" 

"  There's  been  so  much  talk  that  she  went  to 
Brice's  bakery  and  told  them  women  she'd  kill  'em." 

"  But  she  denied  the  story,  didn't  she  ?  " 

Bill  avoided  the  question. 

"  She  said  she'd  kill  'em.  Oh,  she's  got  pluck." 
The  negro  laughed  gently.  "  And,  Mr.  Jerome,  she 
certainly  is  pretty.    Ain't  she  pretty,  though?" 

Jerome  laid  the  egg  back  in  the  basket. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "it's  a  damned  lie.  She's  not 
much  more  than  a  child.  Why  can't  they  leave 
her  alone?" 

"  She  certainly  is  pretty." 

"  It's  a  damned  lie,"  Jerome  repeated. 

And  he  lifted  his  sad  eyes  and  looked  at  Bill, 
hoping  to  find  in  Bill's  face  the  assurance  that  he, 
too,  believed  firmly  in  the  rectitude  of  the  beautiful 
young  girl.  But  Bill's  face  wore  a  strange  smile :  a 
charitable  smile,  but  a  very,  very  wise  one :  a  smile 
that  said,  "  I  know  all,  I  understand  all,  and  I  for- 
give all." 

Jerome  turned  and  left  the  chicken  house.  Bill,  fol- 
lowing a  moment  later,  found  him,  in  the  barn,  en- 
gaged on  a  vigorous  examination  of  the  huge  bags  of 
feed.    "  Go  and  get  me  your  account  book,"  he  said. 

,102 


Barbara  Gwynne 

That  night,  unable  to  sleep,  he  thought  continu- 
ally of  Barbara.  "  Poor  girl !  "  he  muttered,  toss- 
ing about  the  bed.  "  Poor  girl ! "  How  could 
anyone  doubt  her? 

For  to  Jerome  Barbara's  physical  beauty  was  not 
more  real  than  the  beauty  of  her  soul.  To  say  that 
Barbara  had  been  wicked  was,  to  him,  as  prepos- 
terous as  to  say  that  she  had  been  ugly — that,  on 
such  and  such  a  day,  her  round  arms  had  been 
shrivelled,  or  her  abundant  black  hair  dull  and  thin. 

But  in  the  small  hours  he  admitted  the  probable 
truth  of  the  charge.  Then,  with  a  glow  of  deep  and 
joyous  emotion,  he  perceived  that  the  charge's  truth 
could  not  affect  his  love  for  the  young  girl.  If  it 
were  true,  then  there  had  been  unknown  circum- 
stances that  prevented  it  from  being  vile.  .  .  He 
recalled  a  novel  about  a  false  marriage  ceremony. 

But  what  a  pity !    And  she  had  had  to  run  away ! 

With  a  groan  he  rose.  He  lit  the  gas.  He 
strode  in  his  voluminous  night-shirt  to  his  desk. 

The  room  was  very  cold,  but  for  an  hour  the 
young  man  wrote.  Unconscious  of  the  icy  draughts 
that  swirled  about  his  bare  legs,  he  wrote  Barbara 
a  proposal  of  marriage,  a  letter  ungrammatical  and 
crude.  But,  through  its  sincerity,  this  letter  was 
beautiful,  a  beautiful,  humble  letter  that  would 
move  Barbara  to  tears. 


103 


Jacob  Abercrombie  sat  in  his  three-hundred-thou- 
sand-dollar office  in  the  two-million-dollar  Aber- 
crombie Knickerbocker  Theatre,  and  a  multitude  of 
young  ladies,  most  of  them  quite  nude,  gazed  at 
him  and  smiled. 

They  smiled,  those  naked  girls,  from  walls  and 
ceiling.  They  lolled  in  gracious  attitudes  upon  soft 
clouds  of  a  delicious  blue.  Their  white,  pure, 
lustrous  flesh  seemed  moulded  of  cold  cream,  and, 
the  work  of  Melcher  Dana,  the  famous  fifty-thou- 
sand-dollar painter,  they  had  cost,  according  to  the 
best  critics,  more  than  nine  thousand  dollars  apiece. 

Mr.  Abercrombie  was  a  little  below  the  middle 
height.  Clean-shaven,  plump,  slightly  dried  and 
withered  by  time,  he  dressed  in  black  from  head  to 
foot;  and  in  this  black  garb,  with  his  bushy  hair 
of  iron-grey,  his  aquiline  and  hard  profile  and  his 
clever  eyes,  he  resembled  a  bad  actor,  an  immoral 
clergyman,  or  the  proprietor  of  a  circus  side-show. 
104 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  sat  at  a  flamboyant  Louis  Quinze  desk  in  a 
revolving  Grand  Rapids  chair.  His  hands  were 
folded  upon  his  stomach,  and  his  stomach,  protrud- 
ing a  little,  strained  at  his  waistcoat  and  trousers. 
Sometimes,  by  sitting  very  erect,  he  eased  that 
strain.  Again  he  eased  it  by  unfastening  for  a 
moment  a  button  or  two. 

He  awaited  Barbara  Gwynne.  He  had  received 
yesterday  Barbara's  photograph,  with  a  letter  an- 
nouncing her  desire  to  become  an  actress,  and, 
deeply  impressed,  he  had  postponed  an  important 
visit  to  Pittsburg  in  order  to  meet  the  beautiful 
young  girl. 

A  boy  brought  in  a  card.  Mr.  Abercrombie  nod- 
ded. Then,  buttoning  quickly  the  top  button  of  his 
trousers  and  the  bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  he 
rose  as  Barbara  entered. 

Pale  and  grave,  she  entered  timidly.  Her  violet 
eyes  flashed  in  affright  their  radiant  glances  here 
and  there.  But  her  manner  remained,  her  gentle 
and  cold  manner,  her  protection  for  three  years 
against  the  boldest  marauders  of  Smollett's  necktie 
counter ;  and  as  she  advanced  with  slow,  light  steps, 
Mr.  Abercrombie,  weighing  her  delicate  beauty,  her 
shrinking  and  distinguished  carriage,  the  perfect 
neatness  of  her  hair,  of  her  gloves  and  of  her  shoes, 
decided  that  she  must  be  the  daughter  of  some  aris- 
tocratic millionaire. 

105 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Gwynne  ?  " 

He  bowed  over  her  slim  hand  and  led  her  to  a 
high-backed  Jacobean  chair.  Then,  returning  to  his 
own  chair,  he  studied  from  head  to  foot  the  tall, 
supple  figure,  and  he  thought,  "  She  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  I  expected.  If  she  carries  well — if  she 
only  carries  well.  .  ."  And  he  drew  in  his 
stomach,  bent  forward  gallantly,  and  said,  with  a 
gallant  and  hard  smile: 

"  And  so  you  want  to  go  on  the  stage  ?  " 

"  Yes,  please,"  said  Barbara.  She  breathed 
stormily.  She  bit  her  red,  full  lip  to  stop  its 
trembling. 

With  a  mellow  laugh  Mr.  Abercrombie  rose  and 
paced  the  room.  Halting  at  the  farthest  corner, 
he  fixed  on  her  his  shrewd,  enthusiastic  eyes.  Her 
grace,  as  she  sat  erect  in  the  straight-backed  chair, 
seemed  exquisite.  Her  beauty,  at  thirty  feet,  seemed 
finer  than  at  three. 

Yes,  she  carried  well.  The  next  question  was, 
had  she  temperament? 

"  Have  you  got  temperament.  Miss  Gwynne  ?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean  by  tem- 
perament." 

With  mellow  laughter,  leaning  against  the  man- 
tel, he  proceeded  to  define  temperament  and  to 
show  off. 

Though  some,  he  said,  called  it  magnetism,  tem- 

io6 


Barbara   Gwynne 

perament  was  the  true  term.  Bianca  had  it,  Bianca 
the  Itahan,  and  when,  in  her  great  sleep-walking 
scene,  women,  though  she  spoke  no  word,  fainted 
with  horror,  it  was  temperament  that  triumphed, 
temperament  expressing  itself  in  the  slow  and 
tragic  gait,  the  fixed  eyes,  the  .  .  .  and  here  Mr. 
Abercrombie,  to  Barbara's  embarrassment,  actually 
crossed  the  room  in  a  ghastly,  paralytic  manner 
which,  she  knew,  must  be  his  conception  of  Bian- 
ca's  somnambulism. 

"  Temperament ! " 

"  I  see,"  said  the  young  girl  confusedly. 

"  What  is  Hardtbern  but  temperament  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued. "Take  her  love  scene  in  'Antare.'  Her 
voice  cooes,  her  walk  undulates,  her  eyes  are  sad 
with  love,  her  hands " 

What  Barbara  feared  now  came  to  pass.  Mr. 
Abercrombie's  hands  were  suddenly  clasped  in 
amorous  agony,  his  face  darkened  in  amorous  long- 
ing, and  he  minced  towards  her  with  a  movement 
of  the  hips  evidently  intended  to  be  voluptuous. 

"  Temperament !  "  he  cried  again. 

"  I  see,"  she  repeated. 

His  hands  held  high  above  his  head,  he  began  to 
trip  gaily  about  in  a  kind  of  dance. 

''^And  our  own  little  Flo  Parsons,"  he  cried, 
"  our  sprightly,  elfin  Flo — she,  too,  is  but  one  piece 
of  temperament." 

107 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Dancing  to  and  fro,  speaking  in  the  high,  crisp 
voice  of  Flo  Parsons,  he  threw  over  his  shoulder  at 
Barbara  quizzical  Flo  Parsons  smiles. 

"Dainty,  elfin  Flo!" 

"  I  see,"  stammered  the  young  girl,  erect  and 
gloomy  in  her  chair.     "  I  see." 

Mr.  Abercrombie  returned  to  his  seat.  Panting 
a  Httle,  he  unfastened  two  or  three  buttons.  His 
slightly  unpleasant  sensation  of  fatigue  and  heat 
reminded  him  that  he  was  wasting  time. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  go  on  the  stage,  Miss 
Gwynne  ?  " 

"  I've  always  longed  to  be  an  actress." 

"Have  you  ever  done  anything?" 

"  I  know  a  lot  of  poems.    I've  often  recited." 

"Suppose  you  let  me  hear  something?" 

She  rose  abruptly,  and  going  to  his  desk,  she 
leaned  her  elbow  on  the  top;  her  clear  eyes  gazed 
far  away  while  she  sought  some  passage  to  recite. 

"  Oh,  dear !  "  Suddenly  she  regarded  him  with 
knit  brows.  Her  face  twitched  in  distress.  "  I'm 
so  nervous.    I'm  sure  to  do  badly." 

The  troubled  face  and  the  eyes'  appeal  swept  Mr. 
Abercrombie  quite  off  his  feet.  Here,  too,  had  he 
paused  to  weigh  it,  was  a  triumph  of  temperament. 
A  pale  face  twitched,  thin  hands  were  wrung, 
frightened  violet  eyes  looked  into  his:  and  lo,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  all  those  barriers  suddenly  dis- 
io8 


Barbara  Gwynne 

appeared  which  separate  elderly  men  from  beautiful 
young  girls.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Barbara,  as 
surely  as  with  a  caress  of  her  fresh  arms,  drew  him 
into  the  most  perfect  intimacy,  showed  him,  as  only 
mothers  or  sisters  are  shown,  her  girl's  soul  in 
undress.  This  vision  raised  powerful  emotions  in 
his  breast:  pure,  tender,  indescribably  delicious 
emotions. 

''  Go  on,"  he  said.  His  voice,  become  deep  and 
musical,  vibrated.  "  Don't  be  afraid.  I'll  make 
allowances." 

She  assumed  a  charming  pose,  a  virginal,  con- 
strained pose. 

" '  A  Young  Girl's  Complaint  on  the  Death  of 
her  Fawn.' " 

And  her  voice  broke  sweetly  and  delicately  into 
the  crystalline  music  of  Marvell's  verses.  Mr. 
Abercrombie  listened  first  with  indulgence,  then 
with  a  lively  interest.  Here  was  a  recitation  that 
somehow,  perhaps  by  its  purity,  perhaps  by  its 
deftness,  reminded  him  of  France.  He  clapped 
his  hands  at  the  end,  but  Barbara  cried: 

"  I  knew  I'd  fail !  " 

"  It  wasn't  bad,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  it  was  dreadful!  I  missed  every  line. 
There  are  little  shades :  I've  worked  them  out.  .  . 
But  I  missed." 

Mr.  Abercrombie,  cold  and  shrewd  again,  in- 
109 


Barbara  Gwynne 

sisted  that  the  recitation  had  been  good.  Evidently, 
he  said,  she  had  studied :  she  had  learned  to  recite 
poetry  well.  A  waste  of  time.  .  .  Still,  the  reci- 
tation showed  that  she  possessed,  hidden  away 
somewhere,  temperament.  Temperament,  now  and 
then,  peeped  out.  He  paused,  regarding  her 
irritably. 

"  The  question  is,"  he  said,  "  if  I  took  you  in 
hand  for  a  year,  would  the  result  be  worth  my 
while?" 

Barbara  made  no  reply.  He  looked  her  up  and 
down. 

"  Can  you  pay,"  he  asked,  "  two  hundred  dollars 
a  week  to  learn  to  act  ?  " 

She  rose  hurriedly,  in  her  sudden  confusion 
thinking  him  one  of  those  swindlers  who  prey  upon 
stage-struck  girls. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  stammered.  She  moved  towards 
the  door.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  wasted  your  time. 
I  have  no  money." 

"  No  money  at  all  ?  " 

"  Seventeen  dollars."  Her  hand  grasped  the 
knob. 

"  Wait  a  moment.    Where  are  you  from  ?  " 

Closing  the  door  again,  she  turned  to  him  doubt- 
fully.    "  I  am  from  Cinnaminson." 

"  Don't  your  people  dislike  the  idea  of  the 
stage?" 

no 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  I  have  no  people." 

"  You  worked  somewhere  ?  " 

"  In   Smollett's   department  store." 

Her  grave  candour  touched  him.  It  was  like 
questioning  a  child.  He  pushed  her  chair  to- 
wards her  again,  and,  as  she  seated  herself,  he 
resumed : 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  New  York,  Miss 
Gwynne  ?  " 

*'  Three  weeks." 

"  Do  you  find  it  expensive  ?  " 

"  Not  very.  I  have  a  little  bedroom — ^what  they 
call  a  '  hall  room.'    I  cook  over  my  gas-jet." 

"  What  do  your  room  and  food  cost  you?  " 

"  My  room  costs  two  dollars  a  week,  and  my  food 
about  twenty  cents  a  day." 

"  Do  you  like  that  kind  of  life?  " 

"  It  is  very  lonely,"  Barbara  confessed. 

He  mused  a  moment.  He  saw  in  fancy  the  tiny, 
bare,  clean  chamber.  The  young  girl  cooked  her 
frugal  meal.  Then  she  ate  alone.  The  solitude  and 
the  silence  of  this  picture  touched  him. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  how  many  agents  have  you 
seen  ?  " 

**  Should  I  have  seen  agents  ?  I  didn't  know.  I 
tried  to  see  nine  managers,  but  it  was  useless.  I 
tried  to  see  you  three  times.  Then  I  had  my  photo- 
graph taken,  and  I  sent  it  to  all  the  managers  I 

III 


Barbara  Gwynne 

could  find — eleven  of  them.  Seven  asked  me  to 
call/' 

Impressed  by  this  confirmation  of  his  belief  in 
her  beauty,  Mr.  Abercrombie  said  anxiously : 

"  How  many  have  you  called  on  ?  '* 

*'  You  are  the  first/' 

He  pushed  out  his  lips  and  frowned.  For  a  min- 
ute or  more,  lips  pushed  out,  brows  knit,  he  was 
silent.     Then  he  slapped  his  desk  and  rose. 

"  |Miss  Gwynne,"  he  said  briskly,  "  I  am  going  to 
put  you  on  in  the  chorus  of  '  The  Blonde  Widow.' 
The  salary  will  support  you,  and  you'll  learn,  be- 
sides, the  stage.    Meanwhile  I'll  teach  you  to  act." 

Barbara  found  herself,  somehow,  standing  before 
him.  His  hands  upon  her  shoulders,  he  shook  her 
gently,  while  he  looked  up  into  her  face  half  in 
admiration,  half  in  distrust. 

"  In  a  year,"  he  said — and  his  voice  was  at  once 
jovial  and  doubtful — "  in  a  year,  if  you  work  hard, 
if  you've  got  temperament,  we'll  make  a  star  of 
you/' 


112 


XI 


Mrs.  Woodford  was  answering  the  morning's  cor- 
respondence— thirty  letters,  ehcited  by  a  column  ad- 
vertisement, from  old  women  who  desired  to  be- 
come young  and  from  ugly  women  who  desired  to 
become  beautiful. 

She  sat  at  her  desk  in  the  private  office,  thought- 
fully regarding  the  sheet  of  script  in  her  hand.  A 
black  gown,  very  simple  and  expensive,  accented 
the  best  lines  of  her  superb  figure.  Her  carefully 
curled  hair  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  in  the  past, 
and  cosmetics  made  her  face  charming  at  a  distance 
of  seven  or  eight  yards. 

The  young  and  pretty  stenographer,  whose  dis- 
tance was  but  one  yard,  stared  at  Mrs.  Woodford 
with  an  air  of  mockery. 

Mrs.  Woodford  began  to  dictate: 

"  Dear  Madam, — It  was  most  unfortunate  that 
your  son  should  lose  part  of  his  ear,  but  be  thankful 
that  it  is  nicely  healed  and  that  the  injury  was  no 
worse.     I  feel  quite  sure  that  the  loss  can  be  re- 

113 


Barbara  Gwynne 

placed  by  an  artificial  piece,  made  of  vulcanized 
rubber.  Our  new  department  of  ornamental  or 
plastic  surgery  is  most  efficient,  and  if  you  will  call 
with  your  son  by  appointment,  a  free  examination 
could  be  made  and  an  estimate  given  for  the  arti- 
ficial tip  desired. — Faithfully  yours." 

In  her  natural  voice  she  said : 

"  Mark  that  '  Hold  for  J.  S.  McW.'  " 

Then  she  dictated  another  letter: 

"  My  dear  Miss  Harrison, — When  the  forma- 
tion of  the  chin  is  such  as  you  describe  in  your 
*  No.  2 '  drawing,  there  is  no  way  to  change  it  to  a 
clear  cut  chin.  We  can,  however,  reduce  it  and 
make  it  firm  for  you  by  means  of  our  rotary  elec- 
trical massage.  There  are  also  exercises  to  give 
elasticity  to  the  muscles  and  improve  the  flabby  con- 
dition. The  enclosed  booklets  specify  terms  and 
full  information.  Assuring  you  of  careful  personal 
attention  when  you  call, — Sincerely  yours." 

She  took  up  another  letter,  smiled  slightly,  and 
resumed : 

"  Dear  Sir, — We  have  a  number  of  creams  for 
use  after  shaving  that  would  answer  the  desired 
purpose,  softening  the  skin  and  removing  lines. 
The  best  treatment  in  your  case,  however,  would  be 
a  full  massage  course.  We  have  a  gentlemen's  de- 
partment with  private  entrance  and  male  or  female 
operator  as  desired. — Faithfully  yours." 

114 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  last  letter  ran: 

**  Dear  Miss  Wilkins, — You  are  not  the  only  one 
that  mourns  the  loss  of  your  charms,  and  while  you 
should  have  begun  long  ago  to  build  up  the  waste 
that  was  gradually  going  on  in  the  system,  yet  by 
our  patent  physical  culture  exercises  your  figure 
will  soon  improve.  The  enlarged  vertebrae  at  the 
back  of  the  neck  will  disappear  under  the  new  ro- 
tary massage,  and  Zenobia  Skin  Food  will  fill  up 
the  hollows  behind  the  ears.  We  recommend 
Zenobia  Capsuloids  to  enlarge  the  bust.  Zenobia 
Hair  Tints  are  permanent  and  harmless,  though 
best  applied  by  our  own  specialists.  Booklets  of 
rates  are  enclosed.  Get  new  teeth  and  you  will  be 
entirely  transformed. — Yours  sincerely." 

Mrs.  Woodford  pondered  three  or  four  other  let- 
ters, and  the  pretty  stenographer  gazed  at  her 
painted  face  with  mockery  and  scorn.  The  pretty 
stenographer  did  not  realize  that  she,  too,  was 
doomed  to  grow  old ;  that  she,  too,  might  some  day 
strive  foolishly  to  recover  her  lost  youth. 

"  That  will  do  for  this  morning,  Miss  Churchill." 

And  Mrs.  Woodford  entered  the  spacious  and 
gay  beauty  parlour.  Its  colouring  was  still  pink 
and  white,  and  in  the  vestibule  Jerome's  frog  still 
yawned;  but  the  parlour  now  comprised  the  whole 
floor. 

There  was  a   reception   room,  with  magazines, 

115 


Barbara  Gwynne 

writing  materials,  cigarettes,  and  here  the  Zenobia 
preparations  were  sold — Zenobia  Chin  Straps,  Zeno- 
bia Hair  Tints,  Zenobia  Medicated  Soap,  Zenobia 
Powder  in  the  three  usual  hues. 

Passing  through  the  empty  reception  room,  |Mrs. 
Woodford  entered  a  large  salon  that  pale  curtains 
divided  into  eight  or  nine  compartments.  But  the 
further  end  of  the  salon  was  free,  and  in  this 
spacious  recess  a  half-dozen  manicurists  conversed 
in  low  tones  as  they  arranged  on  their  white  tables 
the  rosewater  bowls,  the  buffers,  the  orange  sticks, 
the  pastes,  and  the  emery  files  of  their  craft. 

Mrs.  Woodford  visited,  one  after  another,  the 
massage  cabinets.  In  each  cabinet  a  woman  of 
fifty  or  so,  expensively  dressed,  reclined  with  closed 
eyes  whilst  an  operator  passed  over  her  withered 
face  the  electrically-driven  instrument  that  was  to 
make  her  young  and  fair  again.  These  women, 
who  were  regular  patients,  Mrs.  Woodford  com- 
plimented on  the  improvement  in  their  looks.  Then 
she  sought  the  ironing  cabinet. 

The  ironing  cabinet  was  full  of  steam.  Through 
mists  of  steam  it  was  difficult  to  see.  She  discerned, 
however,  the  robust  operator.  The  operator's  sleeves 
were  rolled  back  from  her  strong  arms,  and,  an  iron 
gripped  in  both  hands,  she  bent  over  a  long  table.  On 
the  table,  through  thick  clouds,  the  prone  figure  of  a 
very  fat  woman  was  visible,  like  a  low  range  of  snow 
ii6 


Barbara  Gwynne 

mountains.  The  iron  glided  over  white  hillocks  of 
flesh.  Steam  swirled  up  furiously,  groans  were  to 
be  heard,  the  operator  murmured  soothing  phrases. 

"  The  abdomen  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Woodford,  peering 
through  the  steam.    "  Ah,  no ;  the  hips." 

"  We  worked  off  eight  pounds  last  week,'*  said 
the  operator. 

"  Not  from  the  hips !  " 

'*  Five  from  the  hips,  three  from  the  abdomen," 
came  faintly  but  complacently  from  the  mound  of 
flesh  upon  the  table. 

"Good!" 

Mrs.  Woodford  approached  the  manicure  room. 
"  I  am  ready.  Miss  Atherton,"  she  said. 

Miss  Atherton,  a  pretty  girl,  made  a  grimace  that 
caused  the  manicurists  to  smile.  Then  she  turned 
and  followed  Mrs.  Woodford  into  a  vacant 
cabinet. 

Mrs.  Woodford  reclined  in  the  operating  chair,  a 
hand  mirror  in  her  lap. 

"  We'll  try  the  forehead  lines  again  to-day,  Miss 
Atherton." 

Miss  Atherton  dipped  her  finger-tips  in  Zenobia 
Cream  and  applied  the  unguent  to  the  other's  face, 
rubbing  it  into  the  skin  slowly  and  thoroughly.  She 
fitted  to  the  massage  machine  an  instrument  whose 
slightly  convex  surface,  about  one  inch  square,  was 
composed  of  twenty  or  thirty  rubber  balls,  smaller 


Barbara  Gwynne 

than  peas.    She  turned  on  the  electric  current,  and 
the  rubber  balls  began  to  revolve  swiftly. 

Back  and  forth,  up  and  down,  the  instrument 
passed  on  Mrs.  Woodford's  forehead,  and  the  flesh 
became  pink  and  swollen.  Mrs.  Woodford  looked 
at  it  in  the  hand  mirror. 

"The  lines  are  fainter,  aren't  they?"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  very  much  fainter,"  replied  Miss  Atherton, 
with  the  effusive  insincerity  of  a  beauty  specialist. 

She  laid  down  the  instrument,  and,  rubbing  a  lit- 
tle more  cream  upon  the  forehead,  she  massaged  it 
with  her  finger-tips.  After  five  minutes  of  this 
treatment  the  forehead  was  pinker  than  ever,  and 
the  lines   were   almost   gone. 

"It's  amazing!"  said  Mrs.  Woodford,  as  she 
gazed  into  the  mirror. 

A  final  massage  was  given  to  the  entire  face,  and 
then  Miss  Atherton  applied  powder  and  rouge 
deftly.  Mrs.  Woodford,  rising,  went  to  the  win- 
dow in  order  to  see  more  clearly  the  result. 

"  I  think  it's  wonderful,"  she  said. 

The  joy  in  her  voice  made  Miss  Atherton  sud- 
denly feel  very  sorry  for  her. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  You  look  lovely !  "  the 
young  girl  cried. 

"  How  you  talk ! "  said  Mrs.  Woodford,  laughing 
with  delight. 

She  found  Jerome  in  the  office  at  his  desk. 
ii8 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  What  about  this  ?  "  he  demanded,  extending  the 
letter  which  proposed  an  artificial  ear. 

"  Jerome/'  she  said,  "  I  am  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  we  must  take  up  ornamental  surgery." 

"  It  isn't  safe,"  said  he. 

"  But  if  we  get  good  surgeons " 

"  That's  the  point.  I  asked  Ford  about  it.  Good 
surgeons  wouldn't  work  for  us." 

Crumpling  the  letter,  he  dropped  it  into  the 
waste-paper  basket. 

"  Give  that  idea  up,"  he  ended. 

"Well,  just  as  you  say." 

Jerome,  with  a  frown,  re-lighted  his  cigar.  He 
hesitated,  glancing  at  her  uneasily,  as  though  he  had 
something  difficult  and  unpleasant  to  reveal.  Then 
he  shrugged,  he  seemed  to  change  his  mind,  and, 
clapping  on  his  hat,  he  hurried  out  to  luncheon. 

A  year  of  success  had  altered  him  a  little.  He 
no  longer  chewed  tobacco.  His  dress  was  more 
startling  in  hue  and  cut;  by  Peanut  Street  stand- 
ards, that  is  to  say,  he  was  better  dressed.  Reli- 
giously, too,  every  other  day,  he  now  visited  a 
barber's  to  be  shaved.  And  often  he  was  seen  at 
a  street  corner,  seated  high  above  the  throng  on  a 
kind  of  throne,  smoking  and  reading  a  newspaper 
while  a  bootblack  polished  his  boots. 

The  May  morning  was  divine;  but  Jerome  had 
not  yet  outgrown  Wartog's  Spa,  and  from  the 
119 


Barbara  Gwynne 

sweet  air,  from  the  mild,  glittering  sunshine,  he 
passed  without  a  shudder  into  the  eating-house. 

He  leapt  upon  a  still  warm  peg,  and,  calm  amid 
the  stench  and  uproar,  he  devoured  baked  beans  and 
apple-pie.  Many  of  the  pale,  lean,  unshaven  busi- 
ness men  at  Wartog's  had  become  his  friends. 
They  conversed  with  him  dreamily  as  they  bolted 
indigestible  food,  their  thoughts  far  away  upon 
"deals"  and  "dickers." 

"  How's  business  ?  "  their  conversations  all  began. 

The  beauty  parlour,  on  his  return,  was  full.  The 
seven  manicurists  at  their  little  tables  plied  the  long 
buffers  busily.  In  the  compartments  hair  curlers 
clicked,  face  steamers  hissed,  and  massage  machines 
hummed.  Low  groans  came  from  the  ironing  cab- 
inet, and  ever  and  anon  the  voice  of  an  operator 
cried  reproachfully,  "  Not  in  one  treatment ! " 

Mrs.  Chew  arrived  at  three.  She  was  led  into 
the  private  office.  The  Rev.  George  Harper  fol- 
lowed her. 

"  George  wants  to  see  Mr.  McWade,"  Mrs.  Chew 
explained. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Woodford,  "  but  Mr. 
IMcWade  has  just  gone  to  Cinnaminson.  I  don't 
expect  him  back  to-day." 

"  George  wants  him  to  use  his  influence  with  the 
newspapers."  Mrs.  Chew  turned  to  the  divine. 
"  Tell  her  what  you  want,  George." 

120 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  I  will  do  so.  Sister  Woodford,  your  heavy 
advertising  gives  Brother  McWade  a  vast  influ- 
ence over  the  local  press.  Well,  I  desire  him  to 
use  this  influence  in  my  behalf.  A  sacrilegious  and 
filthy  play,  '  Magdalen,'  is  to  be  presented  at  the 
Peanut  Street  Theatre  next  week,  and  I  am  getting 
up  a  protest.  A  committee,  headed  by  myself,  pur- 
poses to  call  on  the  mayor,  the  stellar  actress,  and 
the  impresario,  and  I  desire  a  very  full  and  com- 
plete report  in  the  public  prints.  Now,  if  the  sug- 
gestion to  the  press  should  come  from  dear  Brother 
McWade  instead  of  me " 

Mr.  Harper  smoothed  his  black  beard  and  looked 
at  Mrs.  Woodford  wistfully. 

"  I'm  sure  Mr.  McWade  wiU  help  you,"  she  said. 
"  But  '  Magdalen '  isn't  such  a  bad  play,  is  it?  " 

''  Sewage." 

"  Have  you  read  it? " 

"  No." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  Jerome  will  help  you.  1*11  tell 
him  to-night." 

"  I  thank  you." 

Mr.  Harper  rose  and  shook  hands  gravely  with 
both  women.     Mrs.  Chew  said: 

"  Take  the  carriage,  George.  Then  send  it  back 
for  me." 

And  she  retired  for  the  afternoon  to  a  rose  and 
white  cabinet.     She  undressed,  an  operator  coated 

121 


Barbara  Gwynne 

her  from  head  to  foot  with  Zenobia  Cream,  then 
massaged  her  vigorously  for  half  an  hour.  A 
manicurist,  after  she  was  dressed  again,  devoted 
another  half-hour  to  her  nails.  A  hairdresser  spent 
ninety  minutes  in  washing,  drying  and  curling  her 
hair.  Then  Mrs.  Woodford  in  person  gave  her 
facial  massage.  Her  weekly  bill  at  the  beauty  par- 
lour was  never  less  than  forty  dollars. 

"  You  do  look  better,"  said  Mrs.  Woodford,  as, 
at  the  end  of  the  massage,  she  darkened  Mrs. 
Chew's  thin  eyebrows  with  a  charcoal  pencil. 

"  Everybody  tells  me  so !  " 

"Well,  it's  the  truth." 

"  But  I  must  look  my  best  to-night.  Fm  enter- 
taining the  Ebenezer  Whistling  League.  I  suppose 
you  know  I've  turned  Methodist?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It's  made  a  lot  of  talk  among  my  friends."  Mrs. 
Chew  pushed  out  her  lead-coloured  lips  to  the  rouge 
stick.  "  I'm  old  enough,  however,  to  do  as  I  please." 

"  That's  right,';  said  Mrs.  Woodford  warmly. 
"  Life  is  so  short.  Let  us  enjoy  it  despite  our 
friends'  jeers.  Our  friends !  They're  only  friendly 
when  we're  wretched.  The  minute  they  see  us 
happy  they  turn  jealous." 

She  washed  her  hands.  Mrs.  Chew,  regarding 
enviously  her  supple  and  robust  figure,  said: 

*'  You  are  looking  well." 

122 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Yes,  I  feel  well/' 

"  It's  the  treatments,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes ;  it's  the  massage  and  exercise  and  diet. 
It  makes  me  think,  I  feel  so  well,  of  the  Fountain 
of  Youth.  Here,  right  here,  I  sometimes  think,  is 
the  Fountain  of  Youth  that  poor  old  Ponce  de  Leon 
sought  in  Florida." 

"  You've  had  a  great  success  here." 

"  A  wonderful  success." 

The  thought  of  her  success  exhilarated  Mrs. 
Woodford,  and  it  occurred  to  her,  as  she  returned 
to  the  office,  that  she  had  not  felt  so  happy,  so 
young,  since  the  distant  days  of  Harvey  Wood- 
ford's courtship. 

Jerome  S.  McWade,  just  back  from  Cinnaminson, 
brooded  at  his  desk  of  yellow  oak.  On  her  entrance 
he  scanned  her  critically.  His  bright  eyes  lingered 
on  her  face.  With  a  thrill  of  pleasure  she  thought 
that  he,  too,  marvelled  at  the  look  of  youth  and 
freshness  that  had  returned  to  her. 

"  Mrs.  Woodford,"  he  said,  "  there  is  one  little 
matter  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  see," — his  air  was  nervous — "  our  success 
depends  on  convincing  people  that  we  make  them 
young  again — so  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  Miss 
Churchill  managed  the  parlour  hereafter.  You — 
you  will  devote  yourself  to — to  executive  work  in 
the   inner   office." 

123 


Barbara  Gwynnc 

He  looked  at  her  with  an  awkward  and  obstinate 
smile.  Her  over-red  lips,  he  noted,  were  twitching. 
They  twitched  as  though  unseen  threads  jerked 
them  this  way  and  that.    An  odd  spectacle. 

A  spectacle  that  meant  she  took  it  rather  hard. 
He  had  known,  of  course,  that  she  would  take  it 
rather  hard.  And  he  had  had  to  nerve  himself. 
Again  and  again  he  had  said,  "  Now,  suppose  I, 
being  a  barber,  went  bald  in  a  shop  that  made  a 
speciality  of  scalp  treatments:  wouldn't  I  expect, 
then,  to  be  fired?"  And  knowing  just  what  he 
would  suffer  in  such  a  case  as  that,  he  thought  he 
knew  just  what  Mrs.  Woodford  would  suffer.  Only 
she  would  suffer  less  in  her  case:  for  she  was  not 
being  fired:  she  was  only  being  thrust  into  the 
background. 

*'  You  want  me,"  she  said,  "  to  keep  out  of 
sight?" 

Her  voice  was  proud.  Her  air,  too,  as  she  stood 
before  him,  was  proud,  despite  the  twitching  of  her 
lips.  But  this  air  of  pride  did  not  harden  him 
against  her.  It  softened,  on  the  contrary,  his  heart. 
For  in  it  he  dimly  perceived  the  pluck,  the  fine,  for- 
lorn, hopeless  pluck,  the  pluck  of  a  woman.  It  is 
the  way  a  woman  takes  these  things. 

"  You  want  me  to  keep  out  of  sight?  " 

"  Well,  yes." 


124 


XII 


In  New  York  Barbara,  for  the  first  time,  lived. 

She  spent  her  mornings  in  study  before  a  three- 
leaved  mirror  in  her  room.  The  afternoons  she 
gave  to  Mr.  Abercrombie's  lessons,  or  to  hansom 
rides,  followed  by  tea,  now  with  Millicent  Morti- 
mer Miller,  now  with  Agnes  Atwood.  And  in  the 
evening,  in  a  skirt  reaching  nearly  to  her  knees,  she 
displayed  her  beauty  in  the  ninety-thousand-dollar 
production  of  "  The  Blonde  Widow." 

Her  boarding-house,  in  an  old-fashioned  square 
down  town,  was  more  than  comfortable,  more  than 
respectable.  It  had  been  chosen  for  her  by  Mr. 
Abercrombie  himself ;  his  secretary,  too,  lived  there ; 
Barbara  suspected  that  Miss  Hanch,  under  orders, 
spied  on  her.   .    .   Not  that  it  mattered. 

Barbara's  work  with  Mr.  Abercrombie  was  diffi- 
cult and  delightful.  He  was  writing  a  play  for  her, 
"  Vassa,"  and  the  scenario  was  already  finished,  but 
whether  the  play  should  be  termed  a  one-hundred 

125 


Barbara  Gwynne 

or  a  two-hundred-thousand-dollar  production  had 
not  yet  been  decided. 

All  winter  she  rehearsed  the  first  act.  There 
were  winter  afternoons  so  warm  that  business  men 
walked  in  their  shirtsleeves  to  business,  and  she 
rehearsed  beside  an  open  window. 

Vassa  was  a  beggar  girl,  a  beggar  girl  in  a  me- 
diaeval town. 

"  She  is  Carmen,"  said  Mr.  Abercrombie,  "  with 
all  the  wickedness  left  out." 

And  turning  off  the  steam  heat,  he  described  the 
carnival  scene  of  the  first  act.  Mediaeval  houses, 
grey  and  picturesque,  rose  to  an  extraordinary 
height,  and  from  every  storey  girls  would  throw 
confetti  on  the  glittering,  whirling  throng  below. 
The  whole  stage,  Mr.  Abercrombie  said,  would 
glitter  and  whirl.  Changing  lights  would  fall  on 
cloth  of  gold,  on  pierrots  in  black  and  white,  on 
knights  in  armour,  and  on  supple  dancers.  But 
with  her  gaiety  and  beauty  Vassa  would  dominate 
all,  even  to  the  dance  of  masked  revellers  culmi- 
nating in  the  young  king's  entrance.  And  the  act 
would  end,  naturally,  with  a  scene  between  Vassa 
and  the  king  wherein  the  beggar  girl  would  be  so 
irresistible  that  Dagobert  IX.,  with  respectful 
ardour,  would  offer  her  his  hand  in  marriage. 

The  winter  pursued  its  strange  course.  A  day 
like  June  would  be  followed  by  a  blizzard,  and 
126 


Barbara  Gwynne 


Barbara  amid  six-foot  drifts  would  plod  to  the 
Abercrombie  Knickerbocker  Theatre  to  learn  to 
play  the  beggar  girl. 

For  a  week,  as  a  beggar  girl,  she  climbed  a  high 
wall  to  give  a  knight  a  rose.  The  wall  was  a  mas- 
sive bookcase,  which  Mr.  Abercrombie  ascended 
with  her.  A  hundred  times,  despite  his  bulk,  Mr. 
Abercrombie  leapt  from  shelf  to  shelf  to  show 
her  how  a  wall  is  climbed  in  a  graceful,  hoydenish 
and  laughing  manner. 

March  ushered  in  the  spring.  The  sky  was  a 
raw  blue,  the  harsh  sunshine  hurt,  and  at  every 
corner  whirlpools  of  dried  filth  revolved  continu- 
ally in  an  abominable  wind.  Dust  was  everywhere ; 
it  inflamed  the  eyes,  gritted  between  the  teeth,  with- 
ered the  skin.  And  day  and  night,  like  the  grey 
phantoms  of  indefatigable  dervishes,  the  whirlpools 
of  dried  filth  revolved. 

Barbara  in  March  began  to  work  on  the  second 
act  of  "  Vassa."  Vassa  was  now  a  Queen.  And  as, 
in  the  first  act,  she  had  been  the  most  hoydenish 
of  beggar  girls,  so,  in  the  second,  she  was  the  most 
superb  of  queens.  Her  languid  walk,  her  sweet  and 
supercilious  voice;  her  upHfted  chin  and  cold,  proud 
gaze  delighted  Mr.  Abercrombie, 

But  should  Vassa  be  pure  or  impure?  Which 
would  the  public  prefer?  While  Mr.  Abercrombie 
pondered  this  question,  Hardtbern  and  dainty  Flo 
127 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Parsons  had  a  great  success  as  heroines  of  consid- 
erable impurity.  That  decided  Mr.  Abercrombie, 
and  in  the  second  act  he  introduced  a  lover. 

For  the  love  scene  he  taught  Barbara  to  be  volup- 
tuous, to  pant,  to  walk  with  slow,  dragging  feet,  and 
to  protrude  the  abdomen  slightly.  The  act  ended 
with  the  king's  discovery  of  the  guilty  pair,  a  sword 
fight,  the  death  of  Vassa's  lover  in  her  bedcham- 
ber, and  the  repentant  queen's  withdrawal  to  a 
cloister. 

But  if  the  second  act  had  been  impure,  the  third 
was  in  its  purity  whiter  than  a  snowdrift. 

"  White,  all  white !  "  cried  Mr.  Abercrombie. 

And  Vassa,  a  white-robed  nun,  counted  her  beads 
and  fed  her  doves  among  the  nuns  in  the  convent 
garden.  A  short  act,  relying  for  its  effect  upon  its 
purity.  But  it  concluded  with  a  crash  of  arms. 
The  country  was  at  war,  the  royal  forces  were  in 
peril,  and  in  their  harness  of  grey  steel  the  mar- 
shals and  generals,  gathering  in  the  convent,  be- 
sought Vassa  to  lead  the  troops  that  would  set  out 
that  night  to  save  the  king. 

"  Do  you  see  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Abercrombie.  "  In 
act  four  you'll  wear  chain  mail.  You'll  be  a  Joan 
of  Arc.  You'll  absolve  your  sins  by  conquering 
the  enemy." 

"  But  Vassa,"  Barbara  objected,  "  knows  noth- 
ing about  warfare." 

128 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"What  did  Joan  of  Arc  know  about  warfare?" 
Mr.  Abercrombie  snarled. 

Barbara  grasped  and  executed  Mr.  Abercrombie's 
suggestions  with  an  accuracy  that  caused  him,  she 
believed,  to  overpraise  her.  For  her  work  was  only 
imitation.  Thus,  as  the  queen  voluptuary,  she  imi- 
tated Hardtbern ;  as  the  queen  warrior  she  imitated 
Flo  Parsons;  as  the  beggar  girl  she  imitated  Voe. 
And  she  perceived  that  "  Vassa,"  too,  was  only  imi- 
tation— the  tawdriest  act  from  this  success  patched 
awkwardly  to  the  tawdriest  act  from  that. 

Nevertheless,  humble  and  painstaking,  she  worked 
hard.  To  learn  merely  to  imitate  often  seemed  be- 
yond her  powers.  And  lo,  after  an  infinity  of  blind, 
perplexed  gropings,  after  an  infinity  of  failures,  she 
saw  Vassa,  like  a  doll  in  her  hands,  begin  to  breathe, 
begin  to  move  and  speak  and  laugh  with  a  real  life 
of  her  own.  Vassa,  though  still  a  composite  of  imita- 
tions, was  yet — O  happy  miracle — somehow  alive. 

Barbara  worked  hard,  and  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
under  the  wing  of  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller  and 
Agnes  Atwood,  she  met  at  teas  and  receptions  the 
critics,  playwrights  and  novelists  of  New  York. 

Critics,  playwrights,  novelists — she  liked  them 
because  they  were  sincere.  They  really  believed 
that  they  were  great,  they  really  believed  that  they 
made  New  York,  like  Paris,  a  centre  and  a  hotbed 
of  the  arts,  they  really  believed  that  the  world's  eye 
129 


Barbara  Gwynne 

was  on  them ;  and  to  tlie  beautiful  and  modest  girl 
they  boasted  so  naively  that  she  was  always  sorry 
when  the  time  came  to  return  with  Millicent  Morti- 
mer Miller  and  Agnes  Atwood  to  the  boarding-house. 

Millicent  Mortimer  Miller  and  Agnes  Atwood 
worked  on  the  Dispatch.  Day  after  day,  between 
them,  they  filled  the  Dispatch's  "woman's  page." 
While  the  average  "  woman's  page "  contained 
articles  about  superb  waste-paper  baskets  made  of 
old  bowler  hats,  the  Dispatch's  was  wholly  devoted  to 
sexual  topics.  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller,  for  ex- 
ample, would  pretend  that  a  matron  had  sent  her  a 
letter :  "  I  was  unfaithful  to  my  marriage  vows  nine 
years  ago,  and  conscience  now  urges  me  to  confess 
all  to  my  husband.  What  do  you  advise  ?  "  Under 
the  pretence  that  in  her  dilemma  this  matron  must 
be  helped,  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller  would  write 
two  or  three  columns  about  the  dreariness  of  mari- 
tal fidelity,  the  power  and  delight  of  passion,  and 
the  difficulty  that  a  middle-aged  woman  must  always 
experience  in  resisting  the  advances  of  a  handsome 
youth.  She  would  cite  examples  and  give  details — « 
Mrs.  A's  defeat  by  young  B,  young  D's  repulse  by 
Mrs.  C — and  beneath  the  thin  veil  of  her  hypo- 
critical sermonizing  there  writhed  and  glowed  an 
eroticism  almost  maniacal. 

But  Agnes  Atwood  reminded  Barbara  of  the  Cin- 
naminson  gossips.  She  was,  in  fact,  a  typical  village 

130 


Barbara  Gwynne 

gossip,  speaking,  in  all  the  village  gossip's  coarse- 
ness and  ignorance,  to  a  million  persons  instead  of 
to  one.  If  a  drunken  reprobate  of  fifty  chanced  to 
carry  off  a  little  girl  of  nine  or  ten,  Agnes  Atwood 
put  her  foul  nose  on  the  scent.  She  interviewed  the 
reprobate  in  his  cell.  She  interviewed  the  little  girl 
on  her  mother's  knee.  She  gloated,  she  raged,  and 
incredible  in  their  crude  frankness  were  the  revela- 
tions that  she  spread  before  the  horrified  and  eager 
readers  of  the  Dispatch's  "  woman's  page." 

"  Vassa  "  neared  its  end.  The  company  began 
to  be  engaged.  Millicent  and  Agnes  inserted  many 
paragraphs  about  the  new  play  in  the  Dispatch,  and 
Mr.  Abercrombie  sent  them  tickets  for  "  The 
Blonde  Widow  "  and  gave  them  remunerative  work 
to  do.  The  critics  also  got  remunerative  work 
from  Mr.  Abercrombie,  and  in  their  tremendous 
supplements  Barbara's  photograph  as  Vassa  ap- 
peared again  and  again. 

Thus  she  became  a  personage.  The  best  shops  in- 
sisted upon  selling  her  the  smartest  gowns  on  credit. 
And  in  her  box  at  the  matinee,  in  her  hansom  in 
Fifth  Avenue,  Barbara,  very  elegantly  dressed, 
floated  in  a  delicious  bath  of  flattering  glances. 

So  her  days  passed — the  morning  before  the 
mirror  in  her  room,  the  afternoon  with  Mr.  Aber- 
crombie or  at  matinee  or  tea,  and  the  evening  in 
the  chorus  of  "The  Blonde  Widow." 

131 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  The  Blonde  Widow  "  was  a  great  success.  Its 
chorus  was  the  most  beautiful  that  New  York  had 
ever  seen.  Barbara  herself  felt  a  strange  delight 
as  she  dressed  in  the  large  dressing-room  amid  the 
beauty  of  that  band  of  girls.  .  .  They  drove  to  the 
theatre  in  hansoms,  and,  always  late,  they  disrobed 
hurriedly,  piHng  in  disordered  mounds  sables  and 
ermine,  Paris  gowns,  and  hats  of  a  strange  grace. 
Their  costly  lingerie,  tossed  through  the  air,  fell 
very  slowly,  like  down,  upon  the  floor  in  soft,  light 
heaps.  On  their  stockings  of  gossamer  silk  gleamed 
garters  whose  jewelled  clasps  contained  tiny  pow- 
derpuffs,  watches,  miniatures.  .  .  And  if  their 
apparel  was  exquisite,  they  themselves,  thanks  to 
the  extraordinary  and  laudable  perfection  of  their 
toilet,  they  themselves,  as  they  dressed  or  un- 
dressed, as  they  drew  on  their  little  shoes,  fastened 
their  stays,  stepped  out  of  foamy  petticoats,  were 
more  exquisite  than  their  apparel.  Their  white 
teeth  and  their  pink  nails  possessed  a  glancing, 
gemlike  polish.  Their  slender  limbs  and  bodies  had 
a  marble  firmness.  And  when,  straight  and  supple, 
they  ran  across  the  dressing-room,  their  young 
flesh,  with  the  light  flowing  over  it,  looked  translu- 
cent, luminous.  .  .  They  came  to  the  theatre 
hurriedly  in  hansoms,  departing  hurriedly,  with 
elderly  millionaires,   in  little  broughams. 

But  Barbara  always  departed  alone. 
132 


XIII 

She  departed  alone  until  the  night  Jerome  S.  Mc- 
Wade  took  her  out  to  supper. 

Jerome  occupied  a  stage  box  that  night.  There, 
despite  his  high  opinion  of  himself,  the  audience's 
critical  stare  oppressed  him.  Under  it  he  sat  mo- 
tionless, in  a  wooden  and  constrained  attitude,  his 
white-gloved  hands  laid  awkwardly  on  his  knees. 

In  his  lapel  was  a  mauve  orchid,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  second  act  an  usher,  bearing  high  in  air  a 
great  basket  of  mauve  orchids,  ran  gracefully  down 
the  aisle. 

"  Miss  Gwynne !  " 

From  the  chorus  Barbara  in  her  short  skirt  came 
forward  to  receive  the  flowers.  There  was  a  rattle 
of  applause.  Bowing  and  smiling,  she  saw  Jerome's 
card  pinned  to  a  long  mauve  ribbon,  and  she 
glanced  at  him  coquettishly.  But  he  did  not  meet 
her  glance.  He  sat  with  downcast  eyes,  alone  in 
the  huge,  dark  box,  clapping  gloomily. 

"  He  doesn't  like  my  short  skirt,"  she  thought ; 

133 


Barbara  Gwynne 

and  this  thought  amused  and  at  the  same  time 
pained  her. 

She  found  him,  at  the  end  of  the  performance, 
waiting  at  the  stage  door.  He  stood  bareheaded 
under  an  electric  Hght.  His  cape-coat  was  thrown 
open,  reveahng  all  the  elegance  of  his  shirt-Losom, 
wherein  a  diamond  glittered.  In  one  hand  he  held 
a  gold-knobbed  stick,  and  in  the  other  his  closed 
opera  hat. 

'*  Why,  Jerome,  how  grand  you  are ! " 

He  opened  the  opera  hat  with  a  boom,  set  it  hur- 
riedly on  his  head,  and,  as  he  clasped  her  slim  fin- 
gers, the  gold-knobbed  stick  fell  clattering  on  the 
sidewalk. 

A  victoria,  with  two  horses  and  a  resplendent 
coachman,  bore  them  smoothly  through  the  mild 
April  night  to  the  restaurant.  Barbara,  enjoying 
the  ride,  knew  that  for  Jerome  this  was  a  night 
apart,  though  how  supremely  it  was  a  night  apart 
she  had  no  means  of  knowing.  How  could  she 
know,  for  example,  that  in  her  honour  his  dress, 
from  top  to  toe,  was  quite  new,  like  a  bride- 
groom's ? 

They  descended  at  Delmonico's.  Jerome  nerv- 
ously opened  and  closed  his  opera  hat  with  sharp 
reports.  The  mattre  d'hotel  led  them  to  a  little 
table  covered  with  orchids. 

**  More  orchids !  "  the  young  girl  cried. 

134 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  made  no  reply.  The  restaurant,  like  tHe  box, 
oppressed  him.  During  the  first  part  of  the  sup- 
per he  drank  rather  than  ate.  This  wise  course 
soon  put  him  at  his  ease. 

"  How  is  Cinnaminson,  Jerome  ?  " 

"The  same  as  usual.  I  suppose  youVe  heard 
about  Dr.  Harper  ?  " 

"No.    What  about  him?" 

"  His  sermons  are  the  hit  of  the  year." 

"  Are  they  good  sermons  ?  " 

"Yes;  very  good  and  very  sensational.  He  is 
preaching  this  month  a  series  on  the  white  slave 
traffic  that  the  newspapers  are  giving  columns  and 
columns  to.  It  is  rumoured  that  he  has  had  a  call 
to  a  fashionable  Peanut  Street  charge." 

"  And  you  are  succeeding  too,  aren't  you  ?  " 

He  drank  off  a  glass  of  hock,  leaned  back,  and 
looked  arrogantly  at  the  men  and  women  seated  at 
the  hundred  little  tables  of  the  supper-room. 

"  I  bet  there's  more  than  one  chap  here  I  could 
buy  out." 

"Are  you  as  successful  as  all  that?" 

"  Nothing  to  what  I  will  be.  I  suppose  you 
know  I've  bought  the  livery  stable  and  turned  it 
into  a  cream  factory  ?  " 

"  Zenobia  Cream  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  of  course." 

And  eating  and  drinking  heartily,  he  described 

135 


Barbara  Gwynne 


the  chain  of  beauty  parlours  wherewith  he  would 
soon  link  New  York  to  San  Francisco.  With  the 
quail  champagne  was  served,  and,  to  be  ready  for 
the  champagne,  he  finished  hurriedly  a  glass  of 
Chateau  M  out  on  Rothschild. 

"  I  think  you've  overdone  the  wine,"  said  Bar- 
'bara. 

"Oh,  no." 

For  he  had  read  in  a  Sunday  newspaper  that 
in  all  properly  served  meals  a  different  wine  went 
with  each  course.  Six  wines,  accordingly,  accom- 
panied their  supper.  His  face  was  flushed  by  the 
time  the  coffee  came  on.  Lighting  a  very  long 
and  black  cigar,  he  swallowed  a  liqueur  thirstily. 

"  What  a  big  cigar !  "  said  the  young  girl. 

"It's  a  dollar  article." 

"  Dear  me,  you  must  be  getting  on,  Jerome ! " 

"  Well,  Barbara " — his  red  face  smiled  indul- 
gently amid  blue  smoke  wreaths — "well,  Barbara, 
I've  got  fifty  girls  in  the  factory,  three  salesmen 
on  the  road,  and  four  new  parlours  ready  for 
opening." 

"  You've  built  your  mother  a  house,  too,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes,  a  little  gem." 

"  Some  day  you'll  be  a  millionaire." 

"  If  I  can  secure  a  couple  of  the  franchises  I've 
got  my  eye  on,  I'll  be  a  multi-millionaire." 

136 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"How  happy  you'll  be  then,  eh?" 

But  he  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said.  "No,  I  never  expect  to  be 
happy." 

"  Why,  you  look  happy  now,  Jerome ! " 

"  I  am  happy  now." 

She  blushed,  her  eyes  fell,  and,  twirling  the  stem 
of  her  glass,  she  said  in  a  soft,  constrained  and 
gentle  voice: 

"  Any  one  so  kind  deserves  to  be  happy." 


137 


XIV 

"  So  in  the  autumn  you'll  be  a  leading  lady !  " 

Ford  rose,  took  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"  How  funny  you  look  in  that  rig,**  said  Barbara. 

He  had  worn  in  Cinnaminson  country  clothes — 
brown  shoes,  flannel  collars,  soft,  rough  lounge- 
suits  in  dull  greens  or  greys — but  in  New  York  his 
dress  was  rich  and  lustrous.  The  black  morning 
coat  buttoned  tight,  and  in  the  dark  trousers  the 
pattern  could  hardly  be  discerned.  The  silk  hat 
glittered;  the  boots  with  their  tops  of  grey  cloth 
glittered;  and  even  to  his  bright  hair,  brushed 
smoothly  back,  a  glitter  had  somehow  been  im- 
parted. 

"Don*t  you  like  the  rig?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  she.  She  thought  him  ele- 
gant, but  was  not  his  elegance  too  quiet?  She  re- 
called Elisha  Chew's  garb,  which,  like  the  plumage 
of  a  splendid  bird,  caught  the  eye  at  once.    "  Some 

138 


Barbara  Gwynne 

young  men,"  she  said,  "get  all  their  clothes  in 
London." 

"  What  if  I  got  all  my  clothes  in  London  ?  " 

He  extended  his  hand  again,  but  Barbara,  still 
ignoring  it,  rose  and  went  restlessly  to  the  open 
window.  The  street,  grey  and  old,  was  gilded  with 
sunshine,  and  the  maples  rustled  their  new  foliage 
softly.  The  air  upon  her  flesh  was  a  delicious  ca- 
ress ;  the  magic  of  the  spring  filled  her  with  a  joy 
as  keen  as  pain.    She  said  fretfully: 

"Oh,  where  are  you  going  in  such  a  hurry? 
What  a  divine  afternoon !  And  I  must  stay  in  my 
room  and  work !  " 

"  Come  with  me."  Then  he  hesitated.  "  No ; 
I'm  afraid  it  would  bore  you." 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  bore  me." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  smile,  and  her  eyes 
rested  in  his,  her  tender,  virginal  eyes,  which 
seemed  at  once  to  offer  and  to  beseech  happiness. 
Her  beauty  flashed  and  glowed,  it  cast  a  spell  over 
the  young  man,  and  with  a  sigh  he  approached  her. 
But  her  eyes  fell,  she  blushed,  and  turning  to  the 
window  again,  she  repeated,  in  a  mechanical  and 
breathless  voice: 

"  It  wouldn't— bore  me." 

He  thought  his  air  had  frightened,  even  offended 
her;  and  to  reassure  the  young  girl  he  assumed  a 
matter-of-fact  tone. 

139 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Then  get  your  hat,"  he  said.  "  Vm  going  out 
to  our  new  laboratory." 

In  half  an  hour  they  were  in  the  country. 

Their  carriage  advanced  slowly,  clouds  of  dust 
swirling  up  behind  it,  along  a  white  road  between 
green  hedges.  The  sun  was  bright  and  hot,  but 
cool  airs  were  astir.  On  every  side  fresh  meadows 
sloped,  and  the  fruit  trees  were  changed  to  enor- 
mous pink  and  white  bouquets.  With  gentle  and 
delicate  grace  the  snowy  fruit  trees  swayed  against 
a  sky  of  dazzling  blue. 

"  Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Well,  you  see,"  said  Barbara,  "  I  never  ran  out 
of  money." 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"  Don't  you  remember  the  reason  you  asked 
me  to  write?  You  feared  I'd  need  help,  you 
know." 

She  laughed,  but  he  persisted: 

"Why  didn't  you  write?" 

"  Because." 

"Because  what?" 

"  Because,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  you  didn't 
want  me  to." 

"  Because  I  didn't  want  you  to ! " 

"  You  didn't  want  me  to,"  she  repeated. 

"  If  you  only  knew !  " 

"But  you  didn't,  did  you?" 

140 


Barbara  Gwynne 

His  air  changed  suddenly.  He  blurted,  in  a 
harassed  and  angry  tone: 

"  No,  I  didn't.  You  have  your  work ;  I  have 
mine.  Why,  then,  disturb  each  other?  To  work 
calmly — that  is  the  only  happiness.  After  you  went 
away  I  thought  of  you  all  the  time.  I  was 
wretched.  I  did  nothing.  And  now  again,  this 
meeting.   .    .'' 

"  You  are  sorry  we  met  again !  " 

He  looked  at  her.  She  was  dressed  in  white. 
Even  the  little  shoe  thrust  out  nervously  from  be- 
neath her  skirt  was  white,  and  on  the  slender  in- 
step he  saw  the  glimmer  of  white  silk  hose.  Her 
delicate,  proud  profile  was  troubled  under  the  huge 
hat  wreathed  with  violets,  and  through  the  lace- 
like broideries  of  the  blouse  the  pure  flesh  of  her 
bosom,  stormily  heaving,  gleamed. 

He  took  her  hand,  but  she  withdrew  it.  He  took 
it  again,  and  it  remained,  soft  and  warm,  in  his. 

From  the  swaying  fruit  trees  white  blossoms  fell 
through  the  clear  air.  They  lay  on  her  lap,  on  his 
coat;  they  clung  like  snowflakes  to  the  old  horse's 
coarse  mane. 

''  How  happy  I  am,"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
sincere  and  humble.  "  How  happy  it  makes  me  to 
be  with  you,  Barbara." 

She  turned  to  him  with  soft  laughter. 

"  I,  too,  am  happy,"  she  said. 

141 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  the  carriage  entered  a  white  gateway,  and 
two  young  men  in  white  hurried  forth  from  a  long, 
low  building  that  resembled  a  very  clean  factory. 

"  Here  we  are." 

They  descended.  Other  men  in  white  appeared. 
There  were  handshakings  and  introductions,  and 
they  went  in  to  tea. 

"  Do  you  see  our  goldfish  ? "  said  Ford,  as  he 
led  Barbara  past  the  fishpond.  "  Our  goldfish  are 
full  of  trypanosomes." 

"  Trypanosomes  ?  " 

"  The  microbes  that  cause  sleeping  sickness. 
Sheldon  is  at  work  on  sleeping  sickness." 

At  tea  the  young  men,  having  changed  their 
white  dress,  argued.  They  argued  about  books, 
about  religion,  about  marriage,  about  the  ideas  of  a 
Japanese  bacteriologist  who  had  visited  them  that 
morning. 

Ford  turned  to  Barbara.  "  Old  Harper,"  he  said, 
"  is  getting  up  a  campaign  against  us." 

"  What  kind  of  a  campaign  ?  " 

*'  An  anti-vivisection  campaign.  We  are  sup- 
posed to  roast  live  rabbits — very  gradually — for 
amusement.  Our  oven  is  cold  at  first.  We  in- 
crease the  heat  a  degree  or  two  every  five  minutes." 

The  young  men  laughed.  Barbara  liked  their 
air  very  much.  For  these  young  men  were  not 
absorbed,  as  were  George  Smollett  and  Jerome  S. 
142 


Barbara  Gwynne 

McWade,  in  getting  rich  quickly  by  means  of  legal 
cheats  and  thefts.  No :  they  were  absorbed  in  really 
worthy  things :  they  were  absorbed  in  the  effort  to 
make  longer  and  happier  the  life  of  man. 

And  Barbara,  before  the  air  of  the  young  scien- 
tists, saw  for  the  first  time  how  despicable  was  the 
air  of  the  Smolletts  and  McWades,  the  air  of  the 
business  man.  The  scientists  seemed  to  her  by  con- 
trast frank  and  noble.  The  business  man,  beneath 
his  jauntiness  and  flippancy,  seemed  cunning  and 
contemptible,  deluded  and  mean. 

Ford,  after  tea,  led  her  over  the  building. 

"  How  nice  it  is  here,"  she  said,  impressed  by  the 
shining  cleanliness  of  the  long  white  suites,  the 
spacious  rooms  of  white  enamel,  flooded  with  clear 
light,  where  men  in  snowy  linen  worked  with  glit- 
tering instruments  at  tables  of  glass.  "  What  is 
the  work  like?" 

"  Do  you  know  what  serum  therapy  is  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

He  led  her  to  a  window,  he  nodded  towards  a 
sunny  field  where  a  dozen  horses  were  grazing 
among  daisies  in  the  shadow  of  white  fruit 
trees. 

"  Those  horses,"  he  said,  "  are  living  pharmacies. 
They  have  got  in  their  blood  the  power  to  with- 
stand certain  diseases.  Suppose  a  child  takes,  for 
example,  diphtheria.    We  draw  then  from  a  horse 

143 


Barbara  Gwynne 

some  diphtheria-proof  blood,  and  this  blood  we 
inject  into  the  ailing  child.  It  recovers.  Other- 
wise it  would  have  died.     That  is  serum  therapy." 

"  Strange !  But  what  makes  the  horse's  blood 
diphtheria-proof  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I'll  show  you." 

He  took  from  a  porcelain  incubator  a  three- 
necked  glass  jar  which  contained  an  amber-col- 
oured fluid  covered  with  a  greenish  crust. 

"  The  diphtheria  germ,"  he  said,  "  is  alive,  like 
you  or  me.  It  lodges  in  a  child's  throat  and  multi- 
plies, and  the  child  sickens  as  a  plant  sickens  under 
plant  lice.  We  secure  some  of  the  diphtheria 
germs  from  the  throat  of  a  diphtheritic  child,  and 
we  raise  them  in  bouillon  as  a  dog  fancier  raises 
dogs  in  a  kennel.  This  fluid  is  a  bouillon,  and  this 
hideous  green  crust  is  composed  of  untold  myriads 
of  diphtheria  germs." 

The  young  girl  shuddered. 

"  And  the  filtered  mixture  of  germs  arid  bouillon, 
a  mixture  called  a  toxin,  is  what  gives  the  horse 
his  disease-proof,  his  antitoxic  quality." 

"But  how?" 

"  Come  to  the  stable." 

She    followed    him,    interested,    horrified.      She 
liked  his  grave  enthusiasm.     But  would  anyone  be 
so  stupid  as  to  attack  him  if  his  work  really  did 
good?     With  a  puzzled  frown  she  said: 
144 


Barbara   Gwynne 

"  Is  it  much  better  to  treat  diphtheria  by  serum 
therapy  than  by  drugs  ?  " 

*'  When  diphtheria  was  treated  by  drugs,"  he 
answered,  *'  it  was  a  deadly  ailment.  Now  that  we 
treat  it  by  serum  therapy  it  is,  if  taken  promptly  in 
hand,  as  harmless  as  a  cold." 

They  entered  a  white-tiled  stable.  A  horse 
turned  upon  them  its  mild  eyes. 

"My  little  sister,"  he  said,  "died  of  diphtheria. 
I  was  very  young,  but  I  still  remember  faintly  my 
mother's  tears  as  she  described  the  atrocious  suf- 
fering of  the  poor  little  girl.  .  .  Such  suffering 
is  almost  banished,  such  tears  are  almost  banished, 
thanks  to  these  patient  horses." 

They  halted  at  a  white  box-stall  where  two  young 
men  were  at  work.  The  young  men  were  in  white 
from  head  to  foot;  even  their  faces  were  masked 
in  white  cloths. 

"  This  is  a  new  horse,"  said  Ford.  "  They  are 
testing  him  to  make  sure  he  is  perfectly  healthy." 

"And  after  that  what  will  they  do  with  him?" 

"  When  a  fortnight's  tests  have  assured  them  of 
his  health,  they'll  inject  into  his  veins  a  cubic  centi- 
metre, half  a  thimbleful,  of  the  toxin  you  have  seen. 
That  will  make  him  very  ill.  For  three  days  he'll 
eat  nothing,  he'll  have  a  fever,  his  bones  will  ache. 
Then  he  will  recover. 

"A  week  later  he  will  get  another  injection  of 

145 


Barbara  Gwynne 

toxin,  three  cubic  centimetres  this  time,  a  thimbleful 
and  a  half.  This  injection,  thrice  the  size  of  the 
first  one,  will  have  on  him  no  more  than  a  third 
of  the  first's  effect. 

"Another  week,  and  he  will  get  an  injection  of 
twenty  cubic  centimetres  that  he  will  hardly  feel. 
In  short,  he  will  take,  before  long,  an  injection  of 
five  hundred  cubic  centimetres  of  toxin,  more  than 
a  pint,  more  than  enough  to  kill  a  drove  of  horses ; 
and  this  injection  will  have  no  effect  on  him  what- 
ever. None  whatever.  For  his  blood,  you  see,  is 
now  antitoxic.  It  has  developed,  somehow,  the 
power  to  conquer  the  deadly  germ  of  diphtheria." 

They  sauntered  out  again  into  the  field,  where 
the  horses  grazed  under  the  white  fruit  trees. 

"  Are  they  all  antitoxic  ?  "  Barbara,  in  an  awed 
voice,  asked. 

"  Yes.  Each  of  them  takes  into  his  veins  five 
hundred  cubic  centimetres  of  toxin  every  ten  days. 
That  keeps  his  antitoxic  power  at  the  proper  pitch. 
And  every  month  he  is  bled.  Every  month  he 
gives  us  eight  quarts  of  blood,  eight  quarts  of  diph- 
theria cure." 

"  Poor  horses !  "  said  Barbara.  She  went  from 
one  to  another.  They  let  her  stroke  their  scarred 
necks.     "  Poor,  poor  horses !  " 


146 


XV 


**  Oh,  if  I  were  only  back  at  Smollett's  again ! " 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Jerome. 

They  were  driving  to  the  Abercrombie  Knicker- 
bocker Theatre — to  the  first  night  of  "  Vassa." 

"  I  seem  to  be  wound  up  too  tight — do  you  know 
what  I  mean  ?    As  if  something  would  snap." 

Through  the  darkness  he  saw  vaguely  the  pale 
profile.  Her  eyes,  looking  straight  before  her,  had 
a  sombre  glow.  Her  mouth  worked,  her  fingers 
drummed  on  the  glass,  she  crossed  and  uncrossed 
her  knees,  rocked  back  and  forth.  Jerome,  touch- 
ing her  shoulder,  was  shocked  at  the  violent  trem- 
bling that,  like  a  torrent,  coursed  through  her 
flesh. 

"  Brace  up,  Barbara." 

"  I  can't  keep  still." 

"  Brace  up." 

But  she  turned  away ;  her  slim  figure  writhed  in 
fright. 

147 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"OH,  if  I  forget  my  lines!  I  have  so  many  to 
say,  and  now  I  can't  remember  one.  My  brain  is 
in  a  whirl.  What  do  I  say  on  entering?  What  do 
I  say  to  the  King?    I  can't  remember!" 

Like  a  brother  he  laid  his  huge,  strong  hand  on 
her  arm. 

"  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  This  is  childishness. 
You're  sure  to  succeed;  you  know  it.  Why,  Bar- 
bara, do  you  suppose  a  business  man  like  Jake 
Abercrombie  would  have  sunk  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion in  '  Vassa  '  if  he " 

She  laughed  nervously.  "  Has  it  risen  to  a  quar- 
ter of  a  million  now  ?  " 

"Brace  up." 

"  I  will !  "  Barbara  frowned,  and,  clenching  her 
fists,  she  sat  erect  and  stiff.  "  I  will !  Every  one 
is  like  this  on  a  first  night.  You  must  have  pluck, 
that's  all." 

"  Oh,  you'll  succeed.    Jake  is  a  business  man." 

"  Jerome,"  she  said  gratefully,  "  I'd  never  have 
got  through  this  terrible  last  week  without  you." 

A  week  ago,  when  he  had  dined  with  her,  his 
perfect  confidence  had  fortified  her  strangely;  and, 
on  her  saying  that  she  wished  she  had  his  confi- 
dence to  lean  on  always,  he  had  volunteered  to  re- 
main in  New  York  until  the  production  of  "  Vassa." 

The  carriage  halted  at  the  stage  door,  and  Bar- 
bara, pale  and  resolute,   descended. 

148 


Barbara   Gwynne 

"  You'll  see  me  in  my  box,"  said  he. 

"Will  there  be  any  one  besides  Dr.  Ford  with 
you?" 

"  Ford  won't  be  there.  He  wired  he  couldn't 
come." 

"Oh!" 

She  frowned,  hesitated,  then  hurried  away.  Her 
sad  face  grieved  him.  He  saw  it  as  he  entered  the 
crowded  lobby,  as  he  followed  the  usher  to  his 
place,  as  he  sat  and  waited  for  the  rising  of  the 
curtain — a  pale,  troubled  face,  the  eyes  tragic,  the 
mouth  disappointed,  bitter.   .    . 

And  then,  to  a  burst  of  gay  music,  she  ran  laugh- 
ing on  to  the  stage,  a  lovely  beggar  girl  with  a 
rose  in  her  mouth.  In  heavy,  blue-black  masses 
fell  her  hair,  and  poverty  had  torn  her  gold-col- 
oured gown,  so  that  long  slashes,  opening  with  her 
movements,  revealed  for  an  instant  gleams  of  flesh, 
the  beauty  of  a  supple  limb,  the  snow  of  a  curving 
shoulder. 

She  dominated  at  once  the  crowded  scene.  The 
audience  stirred  and  rustled.  Glasses  were  levelled 
hurriedly. 

"  What  a  beautiful  girl !  "  "A  dream !  "  Such 
were  the  whisperings  heard  by  Jerome. 

Vassa,  with  the  lightest,  swiftest  grace,  climbed 
a  high  wall  to  give  a  knight  a  rose.  The  knight 
would  have  embraced  her,  but  she  made  a  perilous 
149 


Barbara  Gwynne 

leap,  was  caught  in  the  arms  of  two  soldiers,  and 
stood  laughing,  breathless. 

The  audience  gasped;  then,  enchanted  by  her 
daring,  her  gaiety,  her  beauty,  it  broke  into  ap- 
plause. Applause,  for  more  than  a  minute,  stopped 
the  play. 

Jerome  regarded  with  awe  the  young  girl  in  her 
slashed  golden  gown.  She  stood  with  head  slightly 
lowered ;  her  smile  was  demure ;  and  the  limelight, 
like  moonlight,  made  her  remote,  pure  and  fine, 
lifting  her  high  above  the  common  run  of  human- 
ity, changing  her  from  a  girl  to  a  nymph,  a  goddess. 

And  he  sighed,  perceiving  the  hopelessness  of 
his  dream.  .   . 

The  act  progressed,  the  carnival  scene  being 
specially  applauded  —  the  twenty-thousand-dollar 
carnival  scene  wherein,  without  a  spoken  word,  a 
multitude  of  "  supers  "  capered  awkwardly  for  ten 
minutes  under  changing  lights. 

"  There's  stage  management  for  you ! "  Donald 
Dhu,  the  critic,  whispered  to  Jerome.  "  A  twenty- 
thousand-dollar  stage  picture." 

"  Twenty  thousand  dollars !  " 

But  the  dialogue  between  Vassa  and  the  King 
fell  flat.  This  dialogue  Mr.  Abercrombie  believed 
he  had  written  in  a  vein  of  delicate  and  subtle 
poetry.  Nevertheless  it  brought  the  curtain  down 
upon  a  cold  house. 

150 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Too  literary  for  them,"  sighed  the  critic.  He 
took  Jerome's  arm.    *'  We'll  have  a  beer,  eh  ?  " 

They  crossed  the  street,  entered  a  brilliant  sa- 
loon, and  fought  their  way  to  the  bar. 

"  Two  beers,"  said  Donald  Dhu. 

The  bartender  took  two  glasses  in  his  wet  and 
sodden  hand,  filled  them  with  beer,  and  levelled 
off  the  foam  with  a  paper-knife. 

"  *  Vassa '  is  bound  to  succeed,"  said  Jerome 
dubiously. 

"  Oh,  yes." 

**  They  didn't  clap  very  much." 

"  This  is  a  Broadway  production." 

*'0h,  I  see." 

But  Donald  Dhu,  noting  his  puzzled  frown,  ex- 
plained : 

"  A  Broadway  audience  is  the  most  difficult  one 
in  the  world.  A  Broadway  production — but  did 
you  never  hear  that  term  before,  Mr.  McWade  ?  " 

"What  term?" 

"  *  A  Broadway  production.'  That  term  means 
the  top  notch.  Talk  about  your  French  endowed 
theatres!  Why,  the  first  act  of  a  Broadway  pro- 
duction like  '  Vassa '  costs  more  money  than  six 
endowed  plays." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  " 

Jerome  bent  towards  two  young  men  who  were 
discussing  Barbara.     He  heard  them  praise  her 

151 


Barbara  Gwynne 

grace  and  her  talent.  Delighted,  he  laid  his  hand 
on  the  critic's  shoulder. 

**  You  must  have  a  bottle  of  champagne,"  he 
said.     "  Isn't  Barbara  Gwynne  splendid  ?  " 

Donald  Dhu  drank  off  his  beer  and,  protruding 
his  lower  lip,  sucked  the  froth  noisily  from  his 
black  moustache. 

"  Gwynne  isn't  bad.  But  of  course  she'd  be 
nothing  without  Jake." 

Jerome  had  great  respect  for  Donald  Dhu,  hav- 
ing been  told  that  the  critic's  salary  was  eight 
thousand  dollars  a  year.    Nevertheless  he  said : 

"  Don't  fool  yourself  about  Miss  Gwynne.  She's 
worth  twenty  Jake  Abercrombies." 

"  So  you  say !  " 

A  bell  tinkled,  and  finishing  their  champagne, 
they  hurried  to  their  seats  as  the  curtain  rose  upon 
the  second  act. 

The  second  act  succeeded.  The  royal  Vassa, 
young  and  proud  and  voluptuous,  pleased  the  audi- 
ence, and  when  the  King  slew  her  lover  in  her  bed- 
chamber, under  her  own  guilty  eyes,  the  curtain 
fell  to  enthusiastic  applause,  and  there  were  seven 
curtain  calls. 

A  boy  in  the  entr'acte  went  hurriedly  among  the 
critics  with  typewritten  slips  describing  the  fur- 
niture of  Vassa's  bedchamber.  It  was  all  Louis 
Quinze.     The  bed,  an  historic  piece,  belonging  to 

152 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Madame  de  Pompadour,  had  cost  nine  thousand 
dollars. 

In  the  lobby  Jerome  encountered  Dr.  Ford. 

"  I  have  just  dropped  in  for  a  minute,"  the 
physician  explained. 

"Isn't  it  great?"  said  Jerome.  "A  real  Broad- 
way production,  eh?" 

But  Dr.  Ford,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh,  placed 
his  hand  on  his  white  waistcoat. 

"  Great  ?    It  makes  me  sick,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  mean  it.  When  the  King  harangued 
the  lovers  I  thought  I'd  have  to  rush  out." 

"But  Barbara  is  good?" 

"  Barbara  is  wonderful.  She  has  the  stage  tem- 
perament, the  purest,  richest  vein  of  it  I've  ever 
seen.  Vassa  needn't  speak,  she  needn't  move,  she 
might  be  naked — ^but  her  eyes  would  tell  you  she 
was  a  real  queen." 

"  That,"  cried  Jerome,  "  is  what  I  said  to  Don- 
ald Dhu ;  but  Dhu  says  she  would  be  nothing  with- 
out Abercrombie." 

Dr.  Ford  put  a  fresh  cigarette  in  his  long  amber 
tube.    "Donald  Dhu?    Who  is  he?" 

"  The  Dispatch's  critic.  He  gets  eight  thousand 
a  year." 

Tinkling  bells  called  them  to  their  seats,  but 
Ford  declared  that  he  could  stay  no  longer,  that 

153 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Sheldon  awaited  him  at  the  institute  with  some 
remarkable  trypanosome  slides.  Jerome,  however, 
at  the  end  of  the  third  act,  saw  him  still  lounging 
in  the  lobby.    Then  Mr.  Abercrombie  approached. 

"  Come  on  back,  McWade.  She  wants  to  see 
you." 

In  her  dressing-room  Barbara,  in  her  beautiful 
silver  armour,  leaned  against  the  chimney-piece. 
She  held  her  visor  in  her  hand.  And  by  contrast 
with  her  mailed  figure,  which  symbolised  death, 
her  young  face,  symbolising  life  and  joy,  seemed 
strangely  fair. 

"  Didn't  I  say  you'd  succeed  ?  "  cried  Jerome. 

She  advanced  to  meet  him  with  long  boyish 
strides.    "  But  it's  not  over  yet.'* 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Abercrombie.  "  I've 
caught  them  again.  My  seventh  success  in  succes- 
sion." He  pushed  back  the  thick  grey  curls  from 
his  brow  and  turned  to  go.  ''  But  we'll  have  to  cut 
the  end  of  the  first  act/'  he  said  from  the  doorway. 
"It's  over  their  heads." 

Jerome  took  Barbara's  hand.  "  Is  your  nervous- 
ness gone  now  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"When  did  it  go?" 

"  It  is  astonishing,"  she  cried  joyously.  "  I  don't 
remember  dressing.  Mrs.  Harrigan  was  afraid  I'd 
get  hysterics.    Then,  after  I  was  dressed,  I  looked 

154 


Barbara   Gwynne 

up  my  first  speech — my  speech  to  the  knight — and 
I  kept  repeating  it  over  and  over.  Of  all  my 
speeches  it  was  the  only  one  I  knew." 

"  You  must  have  been  frightened !  " 

"  I  should  say  I  was  frightened,  Jerome.  Why, 
I  don't  even  remember  my  first  entrance." 

"  And  you  looked  as  happy !  " 

''  Happy !  Oh,  I  shudder  to  think  of  it.  My 
legs  seemed  made  of  lead  as  I  climbed  that  wall." 

"  You  went  up  like  a  cat !  " 

"  I  kept  telling  myself  that  I'd  forgotten  all  my 
part;  that  I'd  ruin  the  play.  And  then — ^^when  I 
made  my  flying  leap,  you  know,  and  when  I  heard 
that  blessed,  blessed  applause — I  seemed  to  awake 
from  a  horrid  nightmare.  Suddenly  I  could  do  my 
best,  as  though  I  were  at  home  alone.  Yes,  I  could 
do  better  than  at  home  alone:  the  audience  keyed 
me  up." 

Flushed,  joyous,  she  regarded  Jerome  .  .  .  and 
her  beautiful,  clear  eyes  clouded. 

"You  didn't  see  Dr.  Ford?" 

"  Yes,  he's  in  the  lobby  now." 

"  Send  him  to  me." 

But  Ford  had  left  the  lobby ;  he  could  be  found 
nowhere.  At  last  he  had  obeyed,  no  doubt,  his 
trypanosomes'  persistent  call. 

"  Vassa's "  conclusion,  the  pageant  of  victory, 
was  a  triumph.    The  grey  stone  hall  of  the  castle 

155 


Barbara  Gwynne 

was  hung  with  white  flowers.  The  young  queen, 
slim  and  grave,  sat  on  a  high  gold  throne.  Be- 
neath her  minstrels  sang  to  great  harps,  mail-clad 
nobles  caroused,  nautch  girls  danced,  and  continu- 
ally the  thronged  scene's  stir  and  glitter  was 
drenched  in  changing  floods  of  pink  light,  blue 
light,  green  light,  yellow  light. 

The  curtain  descended  in  a  tumult  of  cheers.  It 
rose  again,  and  Barbara  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
stage  alone.  Three  ushers  ran  forward,  extending 
huge  baskets  of  orchids.  From  Jerome's  box  sailed 
a  great  bouquet;  it  fell  at  her  feet  softly.  Then 
from  all  the  boxes  bouquets  pelted  her,  the  applause 
rose  to  a  bellow,  and  Barbara,  very  happy  amid  her 
flowers,  kissed  her  hands,  she  bowed  and  smiled, 
and  the  curtain  rose  and  fell  a  dozen  times. 


156 


XVI 

Eleven  o'clock,  a  divine  May  morning,  and  the 
Rev.  George  Harper,  in  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers, still  dawdled  over  his  breakfast. 

The  red  dressing-gown  was  of  flowered  flannel, 
and  the  red  velvet  slippers,  the  handiwork  of  Mrs. 
Chew,  were  embroidered  with  yellow  roses. 

As  he  sipped  his  weak  coffee,  as  he  nibbled  his 
cold  bacon,  the  Rev.  George  Harper  asked  himself 
in  pleased  amaze  what  it  was  that  gave  him  such 
a  holiday  feeling.  He  remembered  with  a  smile. 
It  was  the  spring. 

He  wandered,  after  breakfast,  over  the  house. 
He  nosed  in  the  dark  cellar  amongst  the  contents 
of  the  larder.  He  conversed  blandly  with  the 
"  hired  girl "  as  she  scrubbed  the  kitchen  floor. 
Then,  while  his  wife  made  their  bed,  he  described, 
lounging  in  an  armchair  by  the  open  window,  the 
larder's  sour  odour  and  the  greasy  look  of  the 
cooking  utensils — proof  that  the  hired  girl  needed 

157 


Barbara  Gwynne 

another  reprimand.  But  his  wife  accepted  this 
proof  drily. 

Dinner,  steak  and  potatoes,  was  at  one.  Of 
course,  since  he  had  breakfasted  at  eleven,  he  had 
no  appetite  for  dinner.  He  ate,  however,  half  a 
hot  cherry-pie  brought  in  to  him  by  Annie  Johnson. 
He  still  wore  the  red  dressing-gown  and  the  red 
slippers. 

After  a  nap  in  the  study,  he  began,  at  three,  the 
composition  of  two  sermons.  He  finished  the  ser- 
mons at  four.  Then,  throwing  himself  on  the 
couch  again,  he  read  ''  The  Opening  of  a  Chestnut 
Burr "  till  supper  time. 

Mr.  Harper  was  growing.  He  now  got  his  name 
occasionally  in  the  press,  and  when,  a  momentous 
question  arising,  he  notified  a  dozen  papers  that 
he  had  an  important  interview  to  give  out,  one 
or  two  of  the  papers  would  sometimes  send  a  re- 
porter to  him. 

Mr.  Harper  hoped  soon  to  outgrow  Ebenezer. 
Meanwhile  he  did  all  he  could  to  make  Ebenezer 
attractive.  Thus  a  holiday  sermon  would  be  il- 
lustrated with  tableaux,  and  every  five  minutes  he 
would  pause  in  his  argument,  the  curtain  behind 
him  would  be  drawn,  and  in  the  silence  a  young 
girl  in  a  white  robe,  her  eyes  closed,  her  stiffly 
crimped  hair  unbound,  would  be  seen  on  her  knees 
embracing  an  enormous  cross.     At  the  right  mo- 

1158 


Barbara   Gwynne 

ment  on  Easter  Sunday  doves  were  let  loose.  He 
had  a  crowded  house  when  he  befouled,  in  a  dis- 
course entitled  ''  Sewage,"  the  beauty  of  a  work 
of  art. 

His  supper  was  spoiled  by  a  note,  strangely  cold, 
from  Mrs.  Chew.    She  said: 

"  George, — At  your  request  a  detective  agency 
has  sent  me  an  estimate  of  $300  for  gathering 
further  evidence  against  the  vivisectors,  but  as  I 
am  rather  short  just  now,  I  think  you  had  better 
abandon  this  expensive  project  for  the  present. — 
C  C." 

Mr.  Harper  trembled. 

"Short!"  he  cried.  "It's  Ross  Dagar's  fault 
if  she's  short.  I'll  see  Brother  McWade  about 
this." 

In  the  sitting-room  of  his  apartment  at  the  Hotel 
Washington,  Jerome  S.  McWade  rose  to  welcome 
the  divine. 

"  Doctor,  Vm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  thank  you.  Brother  McWade." 

"  Sit  down  and  have  a  cigar." 

They  drew  their  chairs  close  to  the  radiator, 
which  emitted  a  faint  smell  of  paint  and  iron.  It 
was  a  bitter  night,  and,  taxed  to  its  utmost,  the 
radiator  clanked  and  gurgled.  Mr.  Harper  slapped 
its  hot  surface  with  his  icy  hands. 

159 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Brr !    This  warmth  is  grateful/' 

"  There's  nothing  Hke  steam  heat." 

They  smoked  a  while  in  silence.    Then 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  go  on  with  that  vivisection 
business,"  said  Jerome. 

Mr.  Harper  sighed.  "  I  have  called,  brother,  on 
a  more  painful  errand." 

"How  so?" 

Erect  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  holding  his  cigar 
between  thumb  and  forefinger  at  arm's  length,  Mr. 
Harper  said: 

"  Dear  Brother  McWade,  can  you,  before 
Heaven,  affirm  that  your  several  beauty  parlours 
make  for  righteous  and  meek  living?  " 

"Of  course  I  can!" 

Mr.  Harper  laid  his  cigar  on  the  radiator. 

"  Yet,  through  your  agency,  Mrs.  Silas  Pettit 
has  been  swindled  out  of  a  hundred  and  thirty 
dollars." 

"It's  a  lie!" 

"Bear  with  me."  Mr.  Harper  flushed.  His 
hand,  clasping  his  beard,  shook.  "  Bear  with  me," 
he  resumed.  "  It  is  a  painful  topic.  But,  brother, 
your  Peanut  Street  beauty  parlour  has  planted  a 
spirit  of  vanity  in  Mrs.  Pettit,  and  a  young  man, 
by  preying  on  this  spirit,  has  robbed  our  dear  sis- 
ter of  her  savings." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 
i6o 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Listen.  Sister  Pettit  is  no  longer  young.  But, 
thanks  to  you,  her  hair  is  a  bright  brown,  and  her 
painted  face  has  at  a  distance  the  look  of  a  girl's, 
A  scoundrel,  the  son  of  Doctor  Dagar " 

"  Do  you  mean  Tank  Dagar  ?  " 

"Yes,  Ross  Dagar.  Ross,  in  the  autumn,  made 
her  acquaintance.  He  pretended  to  be  in  love  with 
her.  She  is  fifty-one ;  he  is  twenty-four ;  but,  if  she 
believed  in  her  rejuvenation,  why  shouldn't  she  be- 
lieve in  his  love?  They  met  secretly.  They  wined 
and  dined.    I  hope  and  pray  they  went  no  further." 

"  Young  Tank  Dagar !  "  Jerome's  cigar,  held  in 
the  corner  of  his  mouth,  slanted  up  towards  his 
eye,  which  was  closed  to  keep  out  the  smoke. 
"Young  Tank  Dagar!" 

"  I  pray  they  went  no  further.  But,  on  their 
last  excursion.  Sister  Pettit  had  her  savings  with 
her.  For  there  had  been,  I  believe,  some  talk  of 
an  elopement.  The  young  man  got  possession  of 
her  purse,  and,  on  taking  leave,  he  forgot  to  re- 
turn it.  She  has  never  seen  him  since.  He  answers 
none  of  her  letters." 

"  But  the  police " 

"  Think  of  the  scandal,  brother." 

"  Well,"  said  Jerome,  "  I  don't  see  what's  to  be 
done." 

"  In  this  case  nothing  can  be  done.  But,  Brother 
McWade " 

i6i' 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  voice  of  the  divine  became  deep  and  im- 
pressive, like  a  tolling  bell.  He  took  up  his  cigar, 
but  it  had  gone  out.  He  relighted  it,  regard- 
ing Jerome  solemnly  above  the  leaping  match 
flame.    Then  he  resumed: 

"  Brother  McWade,  there  is  another  case.  This 
young  man  has  now  begun  to  prey  on  the  vanity 
which  you  have  likewise  planted,  albeit  uncon- 
sciously, in  our  church's  benefactress,  Mrs.  Char- 
lotte Chew." 

"Oho!" 

"  The  impudence !  "  Mr.  Harper  began  to  pace 
the  floor.  "  Last  night,  when  I  called,  I  found  him 
there,  smoking  cigarettes.  The  young  degenerate !  " 

"Where  is  Elisha?" 

"  In  California." 

"  Well,"  said  Jerome,  "  I  don't  see  how  this  con- 
cerns me." 

"  Brother  McWade,  if  you  would  warn 
her!" 

"  That's  a  delicate  job.  She's  a  good  customer 
of  mine.    Why  don't  you  warn  her  yourself?" 

"  Ah,  how  can  I,  without  disclosing  Sister  Pet- 
tit's  secret?  A  secret,  so  to  speak,  of  the  con- 
fessional." 

But  Jerome  shook  his  head.  "  I  won't  inter- 
fere.'^ 

"  Then — ^then — if  they  marry " 

162 


Barbara   Gwynne 

In  his  distress  Mr.  Harper  wrung  his  hands. 
Jerome,  regarding  him  curiously,  said: 

"  Do  you  know  when  he  will  meet  her  next  ?  " 

"  He  will  meet  her  to-morrow  afternoon  as  she 
leaves  your  parlour." 

"  Well,  I'll  see  what  I  can  do." 

"  It  is  no  more  than  your  duty,  brother.  But, 
all  the  same,  I  thank  you.  I  thank  you  from  my 
heart."  Mr.  Harper  took  up  his  hat.  His  manner 
denoted  humble  gratitude  and  unspeakable  relief. 
"  Good-night.     God  bless  you,  brother !  " 

''  Stay  and  eat  something,"  Jerome  cried  heartily. 
"  I  always  have  supper  here.  It's  fine  to  live  in  a 
hotel." 

*'  It  must  be.     But  isn't  it  expensive  ?  " 

"  Some  weeks  my  bill  will  run  to  sixty  dollars." 

"Can  you  afford  that?" 

"  I  wouldn't  be  here  if  I  couldn't.  I'm  a  busi- 
ness man." 

Mr.  Harper's  roving  eye  lit  on  a  photograph  of 
Barbara  Gwynne. 

"  What  a  success,"  he  said,  "  Miss  Gwynne  is 
having.  I  understand  she  gets  five  hundred.  9 
week." 

"  That's  about  the  figure." 

"  My  wife  saw  yesterday  at  a  fashionable  mil- 
liner's a  hat  labelled  '  The  Vassa.' " 

"There's  a  'Vassa'  cigar,  too." 
163 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Jerome  rang,  and  a  waiter  brought  a  menu. 
Studying  it,  he  said: 

"  Blue  Points  on  the  shell.  Stout.  Porterhouse 
steak  and  mushrooms.  Cold  boiled  ham.  Cheddar 
cheese.     How  does  that  suit  you,  doctor  ?  " 

Rubbing  his  hands  in  delight,  Mr.  Harper  re- 
plied : 

"  Excellently  well,  all  but  the  stout.  As  you 
know,  I  abstain." 

"  Rubbish.  It  is  criminal  to  refuse  a  wholesome 
stimulant  on  a  cold  night  like  this." 

"As  you  will,  then,  Brother  McWade.  As  you 
will." 

Jerome  spent  the  next  morning  with  his  adver- 
tisement writer.  He  was  now  advertising,  in  a 
hundred  newspapers  and  magazines,  the  Zenobia 
products — the  skin  foods,  complexion  soaps,  black- 
head lotions,  astringents,  creams,  vinegars,  and  hair 
tonics  that  he  made  in  his  Cinnaminson  factory.  It 
paid  him  to  advertise — he  could  afford  to  advertise 
— because  he  sold  his  wares  for  ten,  twenty,  even 
fifty  times  their  worth. 

After  modifying  slightly  the  lies  in  a  dozen  ad- 
vertisements, he  lunched  at  Wilby's  Oyster  Bay. 
At  Wilby's  gathered  the  fairly  prosperous  business 
men,  the  lawyers  and  politicians,  of  the  city.  These 
men  ate  hot  instead  of  cold  luncheons,  they  sat  on 
164 


Barbara   Gwynne 

chairs  instead  of  pegs,  and  they  shaved  thrice  in- 
stead of  twice  a  week. 

He  lunched  on  an  oyster  stew,  hurried  back  to 
his  desk,  and  took  up  a  metal  contrivance  resem- 
bling a  short  glove-finger.  It  was  a  widely-adver- 
tised clip  that,  worn  at  night,  improved  the  shape 
of  the  nose.  Though  the  clip  was  patented,  he  had 
almost  resolved  to  manufacture  it  himself:  the 
patent  could  easily  be  dodged;  and  he  examined  a 
sheet  of  sketches  suggesting  such  slight  variations 
as  would  enable  him  to  steal  with  impunity  the 
patentee's  idea.  It  would  be  fun  to  make  these  clips. 
They  would  cost  about  five  cents,  they  would  sell 
at  about  fifty  cents:  a  thousand  per  cent,  profit! 
But  the  advertising  would  eat  up  most  of  that. 

As  he  finished  a  letter  asking  his  lawyers  to  pass 
on  the  legality  of  the  clip's  theft,  a  manicurist  in- 
formed him  that  Mrs.  Chew  was  about  to  depart. 
He  hurried  to  the  window.  A  young  man,  tall  and 
robust,  leaned  carelessly  against  the  door-post  of 
the  entrance. 

"  Hell !  "  said  Jerome.  "  This  won't  do."  And 
he  saw  in  fancy  his  Peanut  Street  entrance  thronged 
with  young  poor  men,  as  a  stage-door  is  thronged 
with  old  rich  men. 

Ross  Dagar,  on  Mrs.  Chew's  appearance,  gave  a 
start  of  joy,  and,  hat  in  hand,  he  bent  over  the 
squat  old  woman  chivalrously  and  tenderly. 

i6S 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Jerome  followed  them.  They  sauntered  out 
Peanut  Street.  In  front  ofvthe  Westminster  Mrs. 
Chew  extended  to  Ross  Dagar  some  money  which 
the  youth  accepted  with  a  hurried,  merely  formal 
protest.     Then  they  entered  the  hotel. 

Jerome  was  annoyed,  but  at  the  same  time  he 
could  not  help  admiring  Ross  Dagar's  astuteness. 

"  If  Tank  would  brace  up,"  he  mused,  "  what  a 
business  man  he'd  make !  " 

As  he  paced  before  the  hotel,  he  could  see,  by 
rising  on  tiptoe,  Mrs.  Chew's  face  and  the  back 
of  Dagar's  head.  Mrs.  Chew  drank  tea.  Dagar 
consumed  great  mugs  of  beer. 

When,  a  half-hour  later,  they  came  forth,  Jerome 
followed  them  to  the  station.  They  took  the  Cin- 
naminson  train,  and  he  did  likewise.  But  even  at 
Cinnaminson  they  did  not  separate.  Entering  the 
Chew  brougham,  they  ascended  Green  Lane. 

Jerome  hastened  to  Garret's.  Thence  he  pur- 
sued them  in  a  carriage.  But  half  way  up  the  hill 
he  encountered,  much  to  his  surprise,  Ross  Dagar 
coming  down  again  on  foot. 

"Hello,  Tank,  where  are  you  off  to?" 

"  I'm  going  to  town  to  look  up  some  of  the 
boys." 

"  Come  and  have  dinner  with  me,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  with  pleasure." 

"  We'll  just  stop  at  the  chicken  farm  first." 
i66 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Entering  the  carriage,  Ross  Dagar  plunged  spir- 
itedly into  the  narrative  of  a  recent  bar-room  tri- 
umph— a  victory  he  had  gained  over  an  alderman 
in  a  violent  political  discussion,  half  argument,  half 
personal  abuse.  Jerome  was  reminded  of  a  sting- 
ing phrase  wherewith,  as  a  grocery  clerk,  he  had 
once  silenced  the  old  grocer.  Thus  the  young  men, 
recounting  success  after  success,  jolted,  through  the 
dismal  winter  twilight,  over  the  Ridge  Road's  hum- 
mocks of  frozen  mud.  The  ride  to  the  chicken  farm 
seemed  strangely  short. 

"  We'll  make  no  noise,"  Jerome  whispered,  as 
they  got  down;  and  he  opened  the  farm  gate  very 
quietly.  "  I  am  losing  money  here.  So  I  like  to 
surprise  Bill  Stroud  now  and  then." 

"  To  see  how  the  land  lies,  eh  ?  " 

On  tiptoe,  with  pursed  lips,  they  ascended  the 
path.  They  had  a  severe  and  virtuous  air.  At  the 
sound  of  music  they  halted,  regarding  one  an- 
other with  shocked  eyes.  Then  they  advanced 
again. 

Gaining  the  kitchen  window,  Jerome  peered  in 
with  a  scowl.  Bill  Stroud,  seated  at  the  head  of  a 
long  table,  was  entertaining  a  dozen  friends:  a 
dozen  young  men  and  girls,  gaudily  dressed,  whose 
hue  ranged  from  amber  to  deep  chocolate.  Some 
of  the  young  men  and  girls  were  finishing  a  supper 
of  corn-pone,  cabbage,  and  boiled  bacon  with  a 
167 


Barbara  Gwynne 


black  molasses  sauce.  Others  bent  over  a  keg  of 
beer  that  stood  in  a  corner.  A  blind  boy  behind 
the  red  hot  stove  played  a  cake  walk,  and  one  lithe 
couple  danced. 

They  danced  well,  that  pair.  The  youth,  his 
arms  crooked  jauntily,  leaning  far  back,  bounded 
forward  in  time  to  the  music.  The  girl,  too,  leant 
far  back  as  she  advanced ;  she  held  her  skirts  breast 
high,  lifting  her  round  knees,  and  swinging  white 
cascades  of  lace  from  side  to  side. 

"  Is  it  any  wonder  Fm  losing  money  here  ?  " 

"  They  dance  well,"  Ross  Dagar  answered. 

Jerome  regarded  them.  The  accordeon  crashed, 
their  bodies  touched,  the  white  froth  of  the  girl's 
skirts  brushed  back  and  forth  across  the  youth's 
face. 

"They  do  dance  well,"  he  agreed. 

And  he  turned  away.  After  all,  what  good 
would  it  do  to  burst  in  on  his  employee?  They 
seemed  very  happy,  those  coons.  Why  spoil  their 
evening? 

"  We're  all  entitled  to  an  occasional  good  time," 
he  said,  leading  the  way  towards  the  carriage. 

And  at  dinner,  as  the  second  bottle  of  champagne 
neared  its  end,  he  repeated  that  perilous  opinion. 

"  My  creed  exactly,"  said  Ross  Dagar.     "  Let's 
have  cigars  and  coffee,  and  afterwards  I'll  take  you 
to  see  two  very  fine  girls." 
i68 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  the  coffee  cleared  and  strengthened  Jerome's 
mind,  and  he  now  approached  the  task  before  him 
calmly. 

"  Tank,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"  Fire  away." 

"  You're  apt  to  get  yourself  in  trouble." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"You'll  get  yourself  in  trouble,  Tank,  if  you 
don't  stop  preying  on  women." 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean,  McWade  ?  " 

"  I  mean  Mrs.  Silas  Pettit  and  so  forth." 

Ross  Dagar  flushed,  and,  bending  forward  to- 
wards Jerome,  he  said  eagerly: 

"  Preying  on  women,  eh  ?  Well,  what  is  your 
business  but  preying  on  women  ?  " 

"  You  must  be  drunk,"  said  Jerome  haughtily. 

But  Ross  cried: 

"  Don't  you  get  women's  money  by  pretending  to 
make  them  young  and  pretty  again?  Well,  I  got 
Mrs.  Pettit's  money  by  pretending  that  she  really 
was  young  and  pretty." 

"  You  did,  eh  ?  Then  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  But  aren't  you 
ashamed  of  yourself,  too  ?  " 

"  Me  ashamed  ?     No,  of  course  not." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  engaged  in  a  lawful  business.  I 
169 


Barbara  Gwynne 

improve   women's   health   and  looks.     But  you — 
why,  you're  apt  to  land  in  gaol." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  go  to  gaol,"  Ross  Dagar 
admitted.     "  Who  told  you " 

"  Never  mind  about  that.  You'd  better  return 
Mrs.  Pettit's  money,  though." 

"  I'm  going  to,  damn  you.  It's  worrying  me  to 
death.  I  never  intended  to  keep  it,  anyhow.  You 
see,  I  happened  to  meet  some  of  the  boys  that  night. 
But  I'll  pay  her  back.     Look  here." 

Ross  Dagar  exhibited  proudly  a  large  roll  of 
banknotes. 

"  Robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul,"  Jerome  said  to 
himself.  But  this  roll  of  banknotes^  all  the  same, 
impressed  him  deeply.  This  roll  of  banknotes  had 
been  obtained,  as  it  is  every  business  man's  highest 
ambition  to  obtain  money,  with  a  minimum  output 
of  time  and  labour.  This  roll  of  banknotes  had 
cost  Dagar  only  an  hour  of  pleasant  converse  and 
beer  drinking. 

"  Tank,"  he  cried,  "  I  need  a  man  like  you.  Do 
you  want  a  job?  " 

"What  kind  of  a  job?" 

"  Well,  at  the  start,  I'd  put  you  on  the  road  sell- 
ing massage  machines  to  barbers." 

"Good  pay?" 

"  Commission  and  expenses,  with  a  guarantee  of 
thirty  dollars  a  week." 

170 


Barbara   Gwynne 

This  was  the  first  real  appreciation,  the  first  real 
offer  of  a  job,  that  Ross  Dagar  had  ever  received. 
It  moved  him  profomidly. 

"  Thanks,  old  man/'  he  said.  "  I  won't  disap- 
point you.    You'll  see." 

"  And  that  other  business — you'll  give  it  up,  eh  ?  " 

"  Sure,  old  man.  I'll  return  Mrs.  Pettit's  loan 
and  Mrs.  Chew's  as  well.  I'll  make  a  hit  with 
those  massage  machines." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you !  "  cried  Jerome.  "  You'll  get 
there.  I  may  give  you,  before  long,  some  important 
political  work." 

"  Politics  is  my  game,"  said  Ross  Dagar.  He 
finished  in  rapid  sequence  his  champagne,  coffee 
and  Tarragone.  "  Now  pay  your  bill,  McWade, 
and  we'll  look  up  those  two  girls." 

But  Jerome,  swallowing  the  last  of  his  sweet 
liqueur,  became  suddenly  a  little  sick.  He  threw 
away  his  cigar.  And  in  a  shuddering  revulsion 
from  all  that  alcohol  and  tobacco  his  soul  turned 
to  Barbara.  The  thought  of  Barbara  was  like  a 
breath  of  mountain  air.  .  .  Barbara  or  noth- 
ing ..    . 

"  Damn  your  girls,"  he  said. 

He  rose  unsteadily. 

"  Damn  your  girls.    I'm  going  to  bed." 


171 


•r 


XVII 

Mrs.  Woodford,  after  her  relegation  to  the  back- 
ground, decided  to  open  a  beauty  parlour  of  her 
own.  To  this  end  she  set  to  work  resolutely,  but 
it  was  a  long  time  ere  George  Smollett  and  half-a- 
dozen  other  capitalists  were  persuaded  to  establish 
her. 

Established,  she  plunged  at  once  into  "  orna- 
mental "  or  "  plastic "  surgery.  Ornamental  or 
plastic  surgery  paid,  but  she  could  not  delight  in 
it  as  she  had  delighted  in  the  old-fashioned  beauty 
treatments — in  vibratory  massage,  face-steaming, 
hip-ironing — for,  with  its  blood,  it  sickened  her. 
And  she  would  never  forget  the  horror  of  Dr. 
Hilary  Patterson's  first  operation. 

It  was  an  operation  for  the  removal  of  horizon- 
tal lines  from  the  brow.  The  patient,  an  actor  of 
forty-eight  or  fifty  years,  sat,  stiif  with  fright,  in 
the  operating  chair,  listening  to  Dr.  Patterson's 
jokes  with  a  ghastly  smile. 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"You  see,"  said  Patterson,  passing  a  razor 
through  a  gas-jet,  "  the  skin  of  the  forehead  has 
stretched.  It  has  got  too  big.  Well,  we'll  tighten 
it  up.  Then  these  nasty  wrinkles  will  all  disap- 
pear.'' 

"  It's  a  simple  operation,  I  presume  ?  " 

"  Oh,  very  simple." 

Patterson  shaved  a  transverse  channel  across  the 
patient's  scalp  above  the  brow.  Then  he  filled  a 
syringe  with  cocaine. 

''  It's  very  simple,"  he  repeated.  "  I  make  an 
incision  here " — ^he  patted  the  shaven  channel — 
"  I  draw  the  skin  up  tight,  I  cut  off  the  half -inch 
or  so  of  surplus,  then  I  sew  up  my  wound.  The 
hair,  growing  in  again,  will  hide  the  scar." 

"It  won't  be  painful?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  the  cocaine  will  deaden  the  pain." 

He  injected  the  cocaine,  he  made  a  graceful  pass 
with  a  gleaming  knife,  and  blood  oozed  slowly 
forth.  Dr.  Patterson,  with  hands  dabbled  in 
blood,  began  to  pull  the  skin  of  the  forehead 
upward. 

Mrs.  Woodford  broke  into  a  cold  sweat.  The 
room  swam  before  her  eyes,  then  changed  to  grey 
cloud.  A  feeling  of  death  overcame  her.  Totter- 
ing to  her  office,  she  fell  on  the  couch  in  a 
faint. 

When  she  returned  to  the  operating  room,  the 

173 


Barbara  Gwynne 

patient,  at  once  jubilant  and  uneasy,  stood  before 
the  mirror,  stroking  his  brow's  smooth,  tight 
surface. 

"  You  guarantee  this  ?  " 

"  Up  to  the  hilt." 

"  The  wrinkles  are  gone ;  but  I  don't  like  the 
strained  look." 

"  Oh,  that  will  pass  oflF." 

*'  There's  some  difficulty,  too,  about  closing  the 
eyes." 

"  It  will  pass  off,"  Patterson  repeated  carelessly. 

A  regiment  of  young  women  came  to  purchase 
the  dimples  and  the  permanent  flush  that  Mrs. 
Woodford  advertised.  The  dimple  operation  failed 
from  the  start,  but  the  permanent  flush  at  the  be- 
ginning promised  to  yield  permanent  satisfaction. 
It  was  a  simple  scarlet  injection,  a  kind  of  tattoo- 
ing, and  it  looked  very  well  for  a  week  or  two,  then 
it  faded  away.  But  when  a  young  woman,  furious 
over  its  disappearance,  demanded  her  money  back, 
Dr.  Patterson  would  only  consent  to  give  her  an- 
other injection  free. 

A  stream  of  noseless  persons  horrified  and  sad- 
dened Mrs.  Woodford.  One  by  one  they  entered 
Patterson's  office  in  gloomy  excitement.  One  by 
one  they  departed  joyfully,  stroking  noses  that  the 
jocular  young  surgeon  had  created  by  means  of 
paraffine. 

174 


Barbara  Gwynne 

This  operation,  a  bloodless  one,  was  conducted  in 
an  atmosphere  of  low  comedy.  Patterson,  as  he 
melted  over  an  alcohol  lamp  a  mixture  of  paraffine, 
isinglass  and  vaseline,  would  say  gaily: 

"  Of  course,  my  boy,  this  paraffine  nose  won't 
be  as  beautiful  as  Dante's,  but  it  will  get  you  a 
girl  and  a  job,  and  neither  girls  nor  jobs  are  open 
to  the  noseless." 

Then,  having  applied  the  local  anaesthetic,  he 
would  slowly  inject  melted  paraffine  from  a 
syringe  into  the  shapeless  lump  of  flesh  above  his 
patient's  nostrils.  As  the  paraffine  hardened  in  the 
tissues,  he  would  mould  with  his  fingers  the  nose 
that  was  gradually  rising. 

"  What  shall  we  make  it — Greek  or  Roman  ?  " 
b-^  would  cry. 

And  in  the  end  the  patient  would  actually  have  a 
nose,  a  nose  of  mingled  paraffine  and  flesh,  and  the 
improvement  in  his  appearance  would  be  mar- 
vellous. 

But  this  paraffine  nose  would  be  a  peril.  It 
would  be  apt  to  cause  blood  poisoning.  Further- 
more, in  hot  weather,  it  would  be  apt  to  melt  and 
spread,  whereupon  its  owner,  applying  ice  before 
a  mirror,  would  have  to  build  it  up  again  with 
moulding  finger  strokes. 

Dr.  Patterson  set  back  protruding  ears.  He  re- 
moved  scars,   moles,   birthmarks   and   superfluous 

175 


Barbara  Gwynne 

hair.  But  the  majority  of  his  operations  failed, 
most  of  his  work  harmed  rather  than  benefited  the 
appearance,  and  in  the  shape  of  furious  letters,  of 
terrible  scenes,  of  bland,  blackmailing  lawyers,  dis- 
aster threatened  to  overwhelm  Mrs.  Woodford. 

She  would  have  been  quite  overwhelmed  but  for 
the  local  press.  The  local  press  printed  nothing  of 
the  harm  that  the  ignorant  and  reckless  Patterson 
worked  daily  on  the  community.  But  the  local 
press,  for  betraying  its  readers,  for  cheating  them 
of  news  so  important  to  their  welfare,  extorted, 
in  the  form  of  advertising,  a  very  heavy  bribe. 

George  Smollett  of  course  abandoned  her.  Then 
Patterson,  the  week  before  the  first  of  her  eight 
damage  suits  was  to  come  on,  fled  with  her  pretty 
secretary.    In  her  despair  she  appealed  to  Jerome. 


She  had  come  to  this  pass  through  ignorance. 
She  had  really  believed  Patterson  a  reputable  and 
skilled  surgeon.  She  had  really  expected,  by  beau- 
tifying the  ugly,  to  grow  rich. 

In  the  beginning  Patterson's  failures  had 
troubled  her,  but  the  young  man  had  stifled  her 
incipient  fears.  This  patient  had  disobeyed  his  or- 
ders, that  one  had  ceased  her  visits  too  soon;  and, 
at  any  rate,  all  Patterson's  errors  put  together  were 
176 


Barbara  Gwynne 

going  to  prove  infinitesimal — oh,  she  would  see! — • 
beside  his  innumerable  successes. 

So  she  had  drifted  on,  perceiving,  bit  by  bit, 
finally  realising  to  the  full,  the  wickedness,  the 
unprofitable,  silly  wickedness,  of  this  business  on 
which  she  was  embarked. 

And  it  was  such  a  loathsome  business,  a  business 
of  groans,  hospital  smells,  blood;  whereas  in 
Jerome's  gay  beauty  parlours  there  had  been  only 
laughter,  pretty  girls  and  perfumes. 

She  had  decided  to  abandon  the  business,  but,  as 
she  waited  to  abandon  it  without  loss  or  scandal, 
it  entangled  her  more  and  more,  till  now  .  .  .  till 
now.  .  . 

Jerome,  to  her  astonishment,  came  to  her  rescue 
readily.  He  made  her  travelling  inspector  of  his 
long  chain  of  beauty  parlours,  and  his  lawyers  set- 
tled her  eight  damage  suits  for  a  song. 

As,  in  her  new  post,  she  sped  luxuriously  in  a 
Pullman  train  from  Cleveland  to  Chicago,  from 
Los  Angeles  to  Monterey,  Mrs.  Woodford  often 
admitted  that  she  had  underrated  Jerome,  that  suc- 
cess was  not  so  easy  as  she  had  thought,  that 
Jerome  assuredly  owed  none  of  his  success  to  such 
a  failure  as  herself. 


177 


XVIII 

Ford  turned  from  the  microscope  with  a  sigh. — Too 
hot  to  work.  He  was,  besides,  jaded  and  unstrung 
from  a  sleepless  night.  He  sank  into  a  chair  and 
closed  his  eyes. 

Ford  could  only  work  when  in  a  state  of  perfect, 
buoyant  health.  To  maintain  such  health  he  sacri- 
ficed, with  reluctance,  many  things.  Thus,  a  dev- 
otee of  tobacco,  he  only  smoked  on  his  holidays; 
and  in  like  manner  he  eschewed  wine  and  coffee, 
though  to  the  flavour  and  the  stimulus  of  both  his 
being  made  exquisite  response.  Furthermore,  since 
work  demanded  tranquillity  and  devotion,  he 
shunned  love. 

The  joys  of  life  all  called  him,  but  work,  thanks 
to  his  intelligence,  uttered  a  more  imperious  call; 
and  through  the  turmoil  of  temptations  natural 
to  youth  and  wealth  his  intelligence  curbed  and 
guided  him,  as  a  driver  curbs  and  guides  a  fiery 
horse. 

178 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  last  night  he  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of 
Barbara.  .    . 

A  wave  of  poisonous  fatigue  passed  over  him. 
Nevertheless  he  rose  again,  and,  focussing  the 
microscope,  he  beheld  a  riot  of  trypanosomes.  The 
trypanosomes  resembled  short,  fat  eels,  and  fiercely 
and  continually  they  lashed  out  with  their  tails. 
Before  their  indomitable  energy  the  phagocytes, 
the  blood  police,  the  slayers  and  devourers  of  ma- 
rauding germs,  were  helpless.  The  phagocytes, 
which  were  like  round  jellyfish,  could  not  envelop 
and  absorb  these  huge  and  violent  germs  of  sleep- 
ing sickness  as  they  enveloped  and  absorbed 
smaller,  quieter  germs.  The  phagocytes  were 
hustled  and  jostled  by  the  terrible  trypanosomes 
like  children  in  a  mob  of  madmen. 

But  fatigue  again  surged  through  the  young 
man's  veins.  He  went  to  the  thermometer,  it  marked 
eighty-nine  degrees,  and  pushing  back  his  damp 
hair  wearily,  he  saw  the  sea.  He  saw  the  blue  sea 
tumbHng  and  flashing  in  a  great  sunshine.  He 
felt  on  his  hot  brow  the  cold,  pure  sea  wind. 
Stately  breakers  crashed  on  a  lonely  beach. 
Gulls  circled  in  a  sky  of  brilliant  blue.  And  he 
and  Barbara,  amid  wastes  of  white  sand,  amid  the 
vibrating  glitter  of  sunshine,  walked  slowly,  side 
by  side,  at  the  edge  of  the  gliding  foam. 

He  bathed  and  dressed,  and,  hailing  a  hansom, 
179 


Barbara  Gwynne 

he  drove  through  the  heat  and  silence  to  Barbara's 
flat.  She  was  at  home,  Miss  Hanch  said,  and  the 
next  moment  the  young  girl  herself  appeared. 

He  took  her  thin  hand.  "  Barbara,  I  want  to  ask 
a  favour  of  you." 

''  What  favour  ?  "  And  she  withdrew  her  hand 
so  gently,  so  reluctantly,  its  withdrawal  seemed  a 
more  exquisite  caress  than  its  remaining. 

"  Come  to  Cape  May  with  me." 

"When?" 

"Now;  at  once." 

Barbara  mused. 

"  Come,  won't  you  ?  " 

She  glanced  at  Miss  Hanch.  "  Would  Aber- 
crombie  mind  ?  " 

"  I— er— oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  Miss  Hanch  fal- 
tered. 

"  Won't  you  come  ?  " 

"  Yes !  "  she  cried  suddenly.  She  clapped  her 
hands  and  laughed.  "  Oh,  it  will  be  jolly !  When 
can  we  get  a  train  ?  " 

"Good!    At  noon!" 

They  met,  at  noon,  in  the  empty  station,  and  on 
the  ride  to  Philadelphia  they  had  a  "  buffet  car  "  to 
themselves.  They  lunched  in  the  buffet  car,  at  an 
exorbitant  cost,  on  nasty  messes  taken  from  tins — '. 
tinned  ham,  beans,  lobster — and  after  their  abomi- 
nable lunch  they  beguiled  the  hot  and  dusty  ride 
ii8o 


Barbara  Gwynne 

with  picture  magazines.  In  the  parched  fields 
many  advertisements  of  Jerome  S.  McWade's 
Zenobia  Cream  confronted  them,  and,  turning 
wearily  from  the  parched  fields,  they  met  the  same 
advertisements  again  in  all  their  picture  mag- 
azines. Suddenly  Miss  Hanch  looked  up  and 
said: 

"  Oh,  here  is  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller's  article 
on  vivisection ! " 

And  she  read  aloud: 

" '  Vivisection,  in  less  than  a  hundred  years,  will 
be  regarded  by  medical  men  as  religious  men  now 
regard  the  burning  of  witches  and  the  tortures  of 
the  Spanish  Inquisition.'  " 

Barbara  laughed.  "  What  is  your  reply  to  that, 
Dr.  Ford?" 

"  How  can  one  reply  to  such  filth  ? "  said  the 
young  man.  "  Vivisection  has  banished  small-pox, 
it  has  changed  diphtheria  from  a  deadly  to  a  harm- 
less ailment ;  and  yet  this  woman,  in  order  to  make 
ten  or  twelve  dollars,  likens  it  to  the  torturing  of 
witches.  The  only  proper  reply  to  her  would  be 
a  clout  over  the  head." 

"  Read  on.  Miss  Hanch,"  said  Barbara,  and  Miss 
Hanch  read: 

" '  Dr.  Henry  Ford,  a  vivisector  at  the  Lester 
Institute,  declares  that  vivisected  animals  are  spared 
all  needless  suffering,  yet  here  is  a  description 
i8i 


Barbara  Gwynne 

given  by  Gross  of  one  of  his  *  moral  experiments  ' : 
*  I  cut  the  unborn  puppies  from  a  living  mother 
dog  and  placed  them  before  her  in  order  to  see 
whether  she  would  exhibit  the  same  affection  for 
them  as  for  those  naturally  born.' " 

"Lies!     Lies!" 

"  But  why  should  Millicent  Mortimer  write 
lies?" 

"  Why  should  the  World  Magazine  print  lies  ? 
To  make  money,  that  is  why !  " 


Languid  with  the  heat,  they  reached  Cape  May  at 
five,  and  like  a  host  the  sea  wind  welcomed  them. 
Cold,  tonic,  salt,  they  breathed  it  in  delightedly. 
It  filled  them  with  energy  and  joy,  colouring  their 
pale  faces,  brightening  their  tired  eyes. 

"  Oh,  what  big  breakers !  "  cried  Barbara,  as  they 
drove  to  the  hotel.  "  What  white  dunes !  How  the 
reeds  wave  in  the  wind ! " 

The  enormous  hotel,  built  of  wood,  resembled  a 
barn,  and  their  rooms  were  as  bare  as  cells.  But 
their  open  windows  faced  the  sea;  the  salt  wind 
shook  their  clean  white  curtains. 

Dinner,  in  a  great,  bare  dining  hall,  was  ex- 
ecrable: a  tinned  soup,  a  chicken  spoiled  by  years 
of  cold  storage,  and  a  couple  of  tinned  vegetables. 
But  before  them  spread  the  sea  again,  and  as  they 
182 


Barbara   Gwynne 

dined  the  sea  grew  vague  and  wistful,  a  few  stars 
came  out,  and  the  ruined  pier  had  a  strange,  sad 
beauty  in  the  dusk. 

After  dinner  they  strolled  through  the  town.  The 
town  was  but  an  ugly  huddle  of  wooden  cottages. 
And  at  every  cottage  window  sat,  in  shirt-sleeves 
and  slippers,  a  Philadelphia  aristocrat,  pipe  in 
mouth,  reading  the  Bulletin. 

The  next  morning  Miss  Hanch  had  a  headache, 
and  Ford  and  Barbara,  after  a  seven  o'clock  break- 
fast, walked  to  Cape  May  Point  alone.  A  long 
walk,  on  an  immense  white  beach,  amid  the  joy- 
ous movement  and  noise  and  glitter  of  sea  and 
wind  and  sun. 

"  How  gay  it  is ! "  cried  Barbara. 

And  breakers  crashed.  Sheets  of  snowy  foam 
glided  over  the  level  sand.  The  dunes*  coarse 
grasses  waved  in  the  wind.  The  blue  sea  tumbled 
and  flashed. 

"If  life,"  said  Ford,  "could  be  like  this  al- 
ways ! " 

"Couldn't  it  be?"  said  Barbara. 

"  No." 

"Why  not?" 

He  regarded  her  moodily.  As  though  drenched 
her  blown  dress  clung  to  her.  She  was  as  sweet 
and  fresh  as  the  glittering,  windy  seascape.  Nev- 
ertheless he  said : 

183 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"I'm  young,  but  I  know  well  that  life  is 
hideous." 

"It's  beautiful  now." 

"  Not  to  me." 

"  But  you  just  said •" 

"  Well,  I  was  wrong.    Life  is  hideous  even  now." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"Fm  in  love." 

"  If  you're  in  love,"  said  Barbara,  "  why  don't 
you  marry  ?  " 

He  gave  her  another  gloomy  glance.  She  was 
so  exquisite  in  her  white  dress,  it  seemed  useless 
to  discuss  with  her  aught  save  jewels  or  ribbons; 
but  he  knew  her  sturdy  mind,  and  with  a  faint  smile 
he  said: 

"  Marriage  is  a  sin." 

"A  sin?    How  is  it  a  sin?" 

"  Because  it  is  based  on  a  lie.  It  is  based  on  the 
permanence  and  holiness  of  love.  But  love  is  a 
mere  transient  appetite." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  she  said,  "  that  it's  only  a  girl's 
beauty  you'd  love  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you'd  stop  loving  her  as  soon  as  her  beauty 
began  to  fade  ?  " 

"  Ah,  long  before,  perhaps.  But  no  sooner  than 
she'd  stop  loving  me." 

"That  isn't  true." 

184 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"It's  true  of  everybody.     And  yet " 

He  turned  to  her,  but  her  gaze  was  fixed  on  the 
sea. 

"And  yet  I'm  in  love,  and  I  believe  my  love  is 
different — I  believe  it  will  last  for  ever." 

"  But  of  course  it  won't,"  said  Barbara. 

"  Of  course  it  won't." 

She  laughed  oddly.  "Well,  here,  at  any  rate," 
she  said,  "  is  Cape  May  Point." 

And  dropping  their  discussion,  they  strolled  a 
long  while,  in  a  kind  of  awe,  through  the  silent, 
clean  and  sun-drenched  desolation  of  the  abandoned 
watering  place.  Strange  were  the  empty  hotels, 
the  empty  streets,  the  empty  dancing  pavilions,  all 
choked  with  white  sea  sand.  The  clean  white  sand 
was  winning  back  the  clean  white  wreck  of  a  town. 
And  from  the  rank  grasses  of  a  hundred  forsaken 
gardens  rose,  at  their  approach,  the  cause  of  all 
that  ruin — ^blue  clouds  of  mosquitoes,  whining 
faintly,  that  settled  by  the  score  upon  their  backs 
and  shoulders. 

The  sea  had  fallen  when  they  turned.  The 
beach  was  vaster.  They  walked  on  a  floor  of  fine 
sand  as  firm  as  marble.  Here  and  there,  in  clear 
pools  left  by  the  tide,  small  crabs  scurried  busily. 

"  I  can't  get  over  what  you  said  about  love," 
Barbara  mused.    "  I  know  you're  wrong." 

"  You  know  I'm  right." 
185 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  it's  sad  if  love  doesn't  last." 

"  It's  the  saddest  thing  in  life." 

But  Barbara,  frowning,  faltered: 

"All  the  same,  I  don't  believe  this  ugly,  animal 
love  is  the  foundation  of  marriage.  No;  it's  the 
other  love — affection.  Marriage  is  beautiful.  A 
man  and  a  girl  love  one  another,  they  marry,  they 
have  children,  they  grow  old.  They  comfort  one 
another  in  the  sadness  and  pain  of  old  age.  Their 
children  cheer  them.  And  finally  one  helps  the 
other  to  face  death.  Oh,  I  can't  explain  it,  but — 
but — marriage  is  beautiful." 

Her  voice  shook.    He  said  gently : 

"  But  there  are  no  perfect  marriages  such  as  you 
describe." 

"  Of  course  there  are  no  perfect  ones,"  said  Bar- 
bara impatiently.  *'  We  ourselves  are  not  perfect ; 
we  all  have  blemishes  that  we  hate;  but  do  we  kill 
ourselves  on  that  account?  You,  though,  because 
marriage  has  its  faults,  would  do  away  with  it  al- 
together." 

"  Marriage,"  he  returned,  "  is  nothing  but  faults. 
Its  only  excuse  was  the  welfare  of  the  children. 
But  children  can  be  avoided  now." 

She  blushed.  *' Oh,  can  they?"  she  stammered 
confusedly.  And  amid  an  awkward  silence  they 
quickened  their  pace  in  order  not  to  miss  the  bath- 
ing hour. 

i86 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  bathing  beach  on  their  return  swarmed  with 
hundreds  of  Philadelphia  aristocrats  in  short  blue 
bathing  garb.  The  men's  white  legs  were  bare,  but 
the  women  all  wore  black  stockings.  It  was  an  odd 
and  animated  scene.  Here  a  half-dozen  debutantes, 
in  skirts  above  their  knees,  tossed  a  tennis  ball. 
Here,  in  order  to  get  very  brown,  a  half-dozen 
youths  lay  on  their  backs  upon  the  sand  with  faces 
upturned  to  the  sun.  Clubmen  and  matrons,  re- 
clining side  by  side  as  in  a  bed,  flirted  elegantly. 

Barbara  and  Miss  Hanch  and  Ford  bathed  in  the 
cool  sea,  and  after  they  were  dressed  again  they 
basked  in  the  warm  sunshine.  A  group  of  Phila- 
delphia aristocrats  basked  near  them.  Recognising 
Barbara,  the  aristocrats  glanced  at  her  continually, 
while  in  loud  tones  they  talked  of  aristocratic  things 
— polo,  yachts,  Newport.  But  Barbara,  quiet  and 
grave  in  her  chair,  seemed  to  hear  none  of  their  talk. 

Three  determined  college  girls  advanced.  Baggy 
blouses,  cut  like  men's  shirts,  made  their  slim  bod- 
ies resemble  those  of  fat  old  women.  Heavy  shoes 
gave  their  slender  feet  the  proportions  of  a 
waiter's.  The  sun  had  turned  to  a  rusty  brown  the 
roses  and  lilies  of  their  cheeks,  and  from  their  red, 
inflamed  noses  the  skin  was  peeling  in  white  scales. 

"How  did  our  campus  dance  go?"  said  one  of 
the  college  girls,  her  gaze  fixed  on  Barbara.  "  Let 
us  see  if  we  remember  it." 

187 


Barbara  Gwynne 

And  the  resolute  trio  began  to  dance  on  the  soft 
sand.  They  hopped  heavily  about,  they  kicked 
high,  and  their  clear  and  innocent  eyes  sought  the 
young  actress's  in  wistful  appeal.  Nearer  and 
nearer  they  drew.    But  Barbara  rose. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  it's  time  for  lunch." 

After  lunch  they  went  crabbing.  In  a  catboat 
they  sailed  up  narrow  channels  amid  reedy  marshes, 
and  every  little  while  they  ran  aground  in  foul 
black  mud.  The  heat  and  stench  were  terrible. 
Big  green  flies  bit  them  with  a  bite  like  a  pin-prick, 
and  they  caught,  by  means  of  rotten  fish-heads 
tied  to  ends  of  twine,  eight  crabs. 

Miss  Hanch,  overcome  with  the  fatigue  of  crab- 
bing, retired  to  her  room  as  soon  as  dinner  was 
over,  and  Barbara  and  Ford  were  left  alone. 

Alone,  an  intense  embarrassment  seized  them. 
They  lingered  awhile  over  their  coffee  in  a  distant 
corner  of  the  huge  hall.     Then  Ford  said: 

"  It  is  hot  here.     Shall  we  go  outside  ?  " 

Barbara  rose.  He  placed  her  white  cloak  on  her 
bare  shoulders.  She  followed  him  forth  in  silence, 
spellbound  by  a  kind  of  joyous  dread. 

On  the  terrace  they  found  a  solitary  bench  that 
faced  the  sea.  The  sea,  vague  in  a  shimmering 
dusk,  crashed  on  the  dim  beach  softly.  A  crescent 
moon  trailed  luminous  silver  veils  in  the  restless 
water. 

i88 


Barbara   Gwynne 

The  young  man  said: 

"  How  happy  it  makes  me  to  be  with  you,  Bar- 
bara." 

"  But  you  said  this  morning " 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  this  morning. 
I  love  you.    Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

She  hurriedly  disengaged  her  waist  from  his 
arm. 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  If  I  married  you,  you'd 
tire  of  me." 

«  No,  I " 

"  Yes,  you  would.    You  said  so." 

"Barbara,  listen " 

But,  seated  upright  beside  him,  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  long  white  hands.  The  cloak  fell 
from  her  shoulders.  The  moonlight  flowed  and 
gleamed  along  her  arms  and  bosom  and  bowed 
neck. 

"It's  true,"  she  sighed.  "And  it's  cruel,  it's 
too  cruel,  for  I'd  never  tire  of  you.  Never,  never, 
never." 

"  Ah,  you  would.    Everybody  tires.    You  would." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Barbara,  "  we  mustn't  marry. 
But  we'll  always  be  friends." 

"  No.  Friendship  isn't  enough.  Is  it  enough  for 
you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  a  girl  is  different  from  a  man." 

189 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"How  is  she  different?" 

"  How  indeed  ?  Who  can  know  the  mystery  of 
a  girl's  heart  ?  But  tell  me :  is  it  possible  for  a  girl 
in  love  to  be  content  with  her  lover's  friendship  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  that  will  make  him  happy.  That  is 
what  she  wants — to  make  him  happy." 

"  Do  you  want  to  make  me  happy  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Then  .   .   .  Barbara  ..." 

"What?" 

"  Will  you  leave  the  door  of  your  room  unlocked 
to-night?" 

She  shivered  violently.     "  But  ..." 

"  You  are  cold.  Let  me  draw  your  cloak  about 
you." 

"  No,  I  am  not  cold.    But  .   .   .  but  I  .   .   ." 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  he  said.    "  I've  hurt  you." 

"  No,  you  haven't  hurt  me." 

"  Then,  Barbara  .    .    .  will  you  ..." 

She  rose.  She  stood  and  looked  down  in  his  face 
gravely.  Then  she  bent  over  him,  he  was  envel- 
oped in  beauty  and  perfume,  there  fell  on  his  brow 
the  softest,  lightest  kiss.   .    . 

"  Yes  ?  "  he  said.  His  tone  was  rather  shocked 
than  joyous. 

But  she  had  already  gone. 


190 


XIX 

Ford,  left  alone,  leaned  back  upon  the  bench, 
thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  extended  his 
legs.  His  chin  sank  on  his  breast.  With  brows 
knit  in  puzzled  thought,  he  tried  to  fathom  the 
depths  of  Barbara's  girl  soul. 

Had  she  consented?  Yes,  perhaps.  But  why 
had  she  consented?  For  her  own  sake?  Or  for 
his? 

The  unfathomable  depths  of  a  girl's  soul.  .   . 

She  had  consented,  but  he  felt  no  joy.  And  yet, 
as  an  instrument  of  pleasure,  she  would  surely  be 
incomparable  and  divine.  From  her  beauty  shone 
a  light,  and  to  be  drawn,  by  her  fresh  arms,  into 
the  very  heart  of  that  light  ...  to  drown  in  the 
exquisite  glitter  of  white  flesh  .  .  .  But  his  mind 
dropped  the  picture. 

She  had  consented,  and  he  felt  no  jnv  because  he 
forgot  her  flesh,  absorbed  in  her  soul. 

He  rose  suddenly.  He  hurried  down  the  de- 
191 


Barbara  Gwynne 

serted  boardwalk'.  Though  it  was  not  yet  ten,  the 
Philadelphia  aristocrats  had  all  gone  home  to  bed. 

Had  he  done  wrong?  No.  For  he  had  acted 
honestly  and  sincerely,  he  had  done  nothing  wrong 
.  .   .  unless,  perhaps,  he  had  grieved  her  ? 

With  a  sigh  he  descended  to  the  beach.  The 
moon  was  gone  now.  Innumerable  stars  spangled 
the  sky's  soft  depths. 

Ford,  pacing  the  sands,  thought  of  marriage. 
Marriage  (if  unions  so  brief  and  casual  might  be 
dignified  by  that  name),  marriage  with  primitive 
man  had  begun  in  childhood,  as  soon  as  love  began, 
and  the  average  primitive  man  and  the  average 
primitive  woman  had  doubtless  contracted  fifty,  a 
hundred,  even  two  hundred  marriages — as  many 
almost  as  the  average  idler  of  to-day  contracts. 
And  marriage  of  that  casual  and  brief  sort  had  con- 
tinued for  aeons  and  aeons.  And  now  the  human 
frame  was  formed  for  such  marriage  as  indispu- 
tably as  it  was  formed  for  upright  walking.  The 
present  law  of  marriage  seemed  to  Ford  as  irk- 
some and  wrong  as  a  law  compelling  man  to  walk 
on  all  fours. 

To  walk  on  all  fours !  Young  men  and  maidens, 
intoxicated  by  passion,  believed  they  could  stick  to 
that  gait  for  life.  And  when,  cramped  at  last  be- 
yond endurance,  they  erected  themselves,  what 
ugly  griefs  ensued,  what  scandal,  what  cruel  and 
192 


Barbara  Gwynne 

insane  laughter,  as  of  a  world  that  had  suddenly 
lost  its  wits.  .  .  He  frowned.  .  .  Yes,  marriage 
was  impossible.  Marriage  suited  only  those  mean 
souls  who  broke  its  law  secretly. 

But  he  realised  his  youth  and  inexperience,  and 
above  all  he  realised  that  he  had  perhaps  hurt  Bar- 
bara .  .  .  Barbara  .  .  .  was  she  now  awaiting  him  ? 

He  entered  Stewart's.  He  ordered  champagne. 
There  ensued  a  sound  of  chopping  underground, 
and  the  man  bore  in  a  huge  wooden  bucket  wherein 
a  half-bottle  of  wine  stood  amid  bits  of  ice. 

"  Now  bring  me  paper  and  ink,"  he  said. 

He  spoke  without  premeditation,  almost  involun- 
tarily; and  almost  involuntarily  he  began  to  write. 
And  as  he  wrote  his  distress  vanished;  a  strange 
sense  of  peace  and  joy  uplifted  him. 

"  Dear  Barbara, — My  mind  tells  me  that  I  was 
right,  but  something  stronger  than  my  mind  de- 
clares that  I  was  wrong. 

"  Yes,  it  was  all  wrong — pollution. 

"  My  mind  tells  me  that  to  say  '  pollution '  is 
absurd.  But  something  stronger  than  my  mind  re- 
peats *  Pollution ! '  and  though  I  know  that  this 
something  is  ridiculous,  yet  I  can't  help  obeying 
it,  and  I  can't  help  believing  that  to  obey  it  is 
best. 

"  After  you  left  me  I  was  wretched.  I  pictured 
you,  waiting,  waiting,  in  the  dark.    I  tried  to  read 

193 


Barbara  Gwynne 

your  soul.  In  what  spirit,  thinking  what  thoughts, 
did  you  wait?  I  will  never  know,  you  will  never 
say:  for  you,  with  the  divine  and  compassionate 
wisdom  of  woman,  will  always  in  silence  let  me 
believe  about  you  what  I  desire  to  believe. 

"  I  forget  my  unanswerable  arguments.  All  I 
want  is  to  marry  you,  to  please  you,  to  make  you 
happy." 

Summoning  the  attendant,  he  said: 

"Will  you  have  this  note  delivered  at  once? 
There'll  be  an  answer." 

And  he  lighted  a  fresh  cigarette.  The  champagne 
was  cooler  now.  He  re-filled  his  glass  and  set  the 
bottle  back  in  the  wooden  bucket.  His  eyes  shone, 
he  smiled  dreamily,  and  blowing  clouds  of  aromatic 
smoke,  sipping  the  exhilarating  and  cold  wine,  he 
mused. 

His  logic  had  failed  him,  conquered  by  his  love. 
From  this  exquisite  young  girl  he  did  not  want 
to  take :  he  wanted  to  give,  to  give  with  both  hands, 
to  give  all — name,  fortune,  freedom. 

In  warm  and  powerful  waves  happiness  surged 
through  his  being.  How  splendid  that  he,  with  his 
clear  mind,  could  feel  like  this!  He,  knowing  the 
absolute  falsity  and  the  terrible  cost  of  such  feel- 
ings, was  nevertheless  borne  away  by  them.  Hence 
they  must  be  very  strong. 

He  finished  his  champagne  regretfully.     It  left 

194 


Barbara  Gwynne 

him  without  any  occupation,  though  he  continued 
to  smoke  cigarette  after  cigarette.  His  mouth  grew 
dry.  An  hour  passed.  The  Httle  room,  so  bright 
and  gay  before,  now  seemed  a  lonely  hole. 

"  Here  is  your  answer,  sir.'' 

He  opened  the  twisted  note  and  read: 

''  If  you  had  asked  me  yesterday ! — Barbara." 

He  turned  the  note  over.  "  Is  this — is  this  all  ?  " 
he  faltered. 

''  That's  all,  sir." 

"  What  kept  you  so  long,  then  ?  '* 

"  Well,  sir,  she  made  me  wait  close  on  to  an 
hour." 

He  cleared  his  throat.  He  took  up  his  hat  me- 
chanically. 

"  Nothing  else,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing  else." 

After  a  wretched  night  he  rose  early.  But  Bar- 
bara, early  as  it  was,  had  gone.  In  what  spirit  had 
she  gone? 

He  would  never  know. 


195 


XX 


Jerome  S.  McWade,  spread  out  like  a  starfish,  was 
being  shaved,  and,  while  the  barber  shaved  him, 
two  bootblacks  worked  on  his  boots,  and  two  mani- 
curists polished  his  nails.  This  scene,  which  illus- 
trated well  his  rise  in  fortune,  was  laid  in  New 
York,  under  a  glare  of  electricity,  in  a  subter- 
ranean barber-shop  of  onyx  and  gold.  A  short, 
swift  scene,  typical  of  New  York's  ostentatious 
time-saving,  and  ten  minutes  later  Jerome  entered 
the  directors'  room  of  the  Universal  Bank. 

He  owed  his  first  real  rise  to  banking.  He  said 
one  day  to  Ross  Dagar: 

"  Tank,  our  city  deposits  its  cash  in  the  Com- 
mercial Trust.  Its  balance  averages  three  millions, 
and  it  draws  no  interest.  Now,  Tank,  can  you  get 
through  an  ordinance  changing  the  city's  account 
from  the  Commercial  to  the  Universal  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can,"  Ross  Dagar  answered.     "  I'll 
let  you  know  what  it  will  cost." 
196 


Barbara   Gwynne 

Ross  announced,  a  fortnight  later,  that  it  would 
cost  sixty  thousand  dollars.  Jerome  accordingly- 
procured  sixty  thousand  dollars  from  George  Smol- 
lett, the  Universal  Bank's  chief  stockholder,  and 
Ross  distributed  this  bribe  among  the  "  city  fa- 
thers." The  municipal  funds  were  then  transferred 
from  the  Commercial  to  the  Universal  Bank. 

And  Jerome,  in  recognition  of  good  work,  was 
elected  the  Universal's  president,  and  one  per  cent, 
was  allowed  him  on  the  great  non-interest-bearing 
account  he  had  secured. 


Investing  heavily  in  a  cold  storage  company,  he 
soon  had  a  stake  in  a  score  of  cold  storage  ware- 
houses. 

There,  in  a  perpetual  winter  twilight,  amid  coils 
of  pipes  all  white  with  glistening  frost,  tons  of 
fish,  flesh  and  fowl  reposed.  They  entered  those 
dim  Arctic  silences  when  they  were  at  their  cheap- 
est. They  remained,  frozen  hard  as  granite,  till 
a  rise  in  prices  came.  Then,  with  prices  at  the 
highest,  they  emerged,  thawed  out. 

They  took  their  place  in  the  market  as  fresh 
food.  They  commanded  the  same  price  as  fresh 
food.  And  only  experienced  marketers  could  tell 
them  from  fresh  food.  There  are  no  experienced 
marketers  in  America. 

197 


Barbara  Gwynne 

And  if  they  did  not  rot  before  the  marketer  got 
them  home,  they  proved,  on  being  cooked,  to  lack 
all  taste.  Fish,  flesh,  fowl — the  disappointed  mar- 
keter could  hardly  tell  them  apart;  but,  soft  and 
watery,  they  seemed  to  have  been  soaked  together 
in  a  tub  for  years. 

Yet  the  cold  storage  company  paid  good  divi- 
dends, and  when  a  clamour  rose  up  against  cold 
storage  food,  when  some  legislator  proposed  a  law 
for  the  labelling  of  all  cold  storage  products,  the 
company  never  lacked  a  fund  wherewith  to  kill  the 
mooted  legislation. 


Become  a  heavy  shareholder  in  the  Carbondale, 
he  naturally  took  a  leading  part  in  the  Oil  City 
and  Carbondale  merger.  A  merger's  simplicity 
astonished  him. 

The  merger  was,  indeed,  simplicity  itself.  The 
two  lines,  bought  for  thirty  millions,  were  simply 
merged  and  sold  to  the  public  for  seventy  millions. 
Forty  millions  of  profit. 

The  Oil  City  &  Carbondale  Railroad  was,  of 
course,  crippled  by  the  dividends  it  now  had  to  pay. 
Paying  dividends  so  enormous,  it  was  inevitably 
undermanned,  its  roadbed  and  rolling  stock  were 
inevitably  bad,  its  accidents  inevitably  terrible.  On 
the  Oil  City  &  Carbondale  it  became,  indeed,  a 
198 


Barbara  Gwynne 

common  occurrence  for  a  director  or  a  vice-presi- 
dent, travelling  in  his  private  car,  to  be  killed  with 
all  his  family  in  a  derailment  or  rear-end  collision. 


He  belonged  to  a  trust.  In  this  capacity  he 
made  tariff  laws.  Illiterate  and  unshaven  senators, 
clad  in  frock  coats  and  sombreros,  accepted  with  a 
kind  of  jocular  shame  his  bribes,  and  in  return  im- 
posed a  fatal  tariff  on  such  goods  as  he  banned. 
Thus  the  trust,  with  foreign  and  domestic  compe- 
tition alike  slain,  could  charge  the  American  people 
any  price  it  pleased. 

His  work  was  not  all  successful.  For  every  suc- 
cess, indeed,  he  had  a  dozen  disheartening  failures. 
But  he  allowed  no  failure  to  dishearten  him.  Fail- 
ure, on  the  contrary,  acted  on  the  strong  young 
man  like  a  cold  bath,  like  a  tonic.  After  every 
failure  he  resumed  his  work  with  a  more  splendid 
vigour. 

He  lived,  of  course,  in  New  York.  His  apart- 
ment fronted  the  Park.  At  eight  o'clock  he  rose, 
at  a  quarter  after  eight  he  plunged  into  his  por- 
phyry tub,  and  at  nine,  in  a  monumental  frock  coat, 
he  entered  his  breakfast  room,  where,  at  a  little 
white  table  by  a  window,  he  ate  ravenously  of  grape 
199 


Barbara   Gwynne 

fruit,  oatmeal,  grilled  ham,  new-laid  eggs,  fried 
potatoes  and  superb  coffee. 

He  always  wore  a  frock  coat  and  top  hat — a 
New  York  frock  coat  with  colossal  shoulders,  a 
flamboyant  New  York  top  hat.  His  socks,  under- 
wear and  pyjamas  were  of  silk.  His  boots  were 
patent  leather.  His  overcoat  was  lined  with  seal- 
skin. A  diamond  glittered  in  his  cravat.  On  his 
lapel  a  flower  glowed. 

Sleek  as  a  bridegroom — save,  perhaps,  for  some 
slight  need  of  shaving — he  reached  his  office  at 
ten,  and  he  worked  very  hard  till  seven.  Then, 
if  he  had  no  banquet  to  attend,  he  dined  alone. 

He  passed  the  evening  at  his  desk  alone,  now 
lost  in  financial  dreams,  now  figuring  feverishly, 
with  his  gold  fountain-pen,  upon  the  backs  of  en- 
velopes, all  manner  of  documents  spread  before 
him.  At  midnight  he  retired.  He  always  slept 
like  a  log  .  .  .  unless,  indeed,  he  allowed  his 
thoughts  to  dwell  on  Barbara. 

His  one  social  indulgence  was  the  banquet.  The 
banquet  was,  in  fact,  the  one  social  indulgence  of 
all  those  millionaires  who,  like  himself,  had 
swooped  down  on  New  York  from  Des  Moines, 
Pittsburg,  Grand  Rapids,  Saginaw,  the  ends  of  the 
earth. 

They  prospered  in  New  York,  those  millionaires. 
They  built  there  sumptuous  palaces.  Their  names 
200 


Barbara  Gwynne 

were  in  all  mouths.  But  New  York's  aristocracy, 
though  hardly  a  generation  removed  from  just  such 
men  as  themselves,  treated  them  like  dirt.  Hence, 
in  their  loneliness,  their  banquets  innumerable. 

In  the  showy  black  and  white  of  evening  dress, 
ranged  in  long  lines  side  by  side  at  tables  strewn 
with  roses,  they  all  looked  alike  as  they  feasted. 
The  same  Roman  profiles,  the  same  alert,  hard  air, 
the  same  coarse  comeliness — they  might  all  have 
been  brothers. 

In  their  hunger  for  admiration  they  presented 
gold  loving-cups  to  one  another,  praising  in  long 
and  eloquent  speeches  one  another's  wisdom,  cour- 
age, philanthropy.  Strange  depths  of  feeling 
would  then  be  revealed.  The  orator's  nasal  voice 
would  tremble  and  break,  and  all  those  bright, 
hard  eyes  would  fill  with  tears. 

Their  wives,  from  balconies,  gazed  down  upon 
their  sentimental  orgies. 

They  were  beyond  belief  romantic.  Hence,  as 
they  grew  older,  their  wards,  their  young  and  beau- 
tiful wards,  who  had  formerly  been  typewriters  in 
their  offices.  Now  and  then  a  ward  flashed  into 
sudden  notoriety.  Her  motor-car  ran  down  a 
drunken  policeman,  or  she  was  cited  as  co- 
respondent in  a  divorce  suit.  Then  the  press  would 
proclaim  her  Banker  Wright's  ward,  and  Banker 
Wright  would  announce  in  voluble  and  indignant 

201 


Barbara  Gwynne 

newspaper  interviews  that  his  relations  with  his 
ward  were  pure.  He  was  educating  her  for  the 
stage. 

They  were  horribly  vain.  Not  their  daughters' 
vanity,  but  their  own  it  was  that  continually  drove 
their  daughters  to  contract  with  noblemen  mar- 
riages tragic  and  vile. 

And  they  were  as  sensitive  as  flowers.  When, 
having  broken  this  law  or  that,  exposure  came, 
with  the  certainty  of  arrest  and  gaol,  they  collapsed 
on  the  instant.  They  took  immediately  to  their 
beds.  Shame  and  fright  consumed  them  like  a 
fire.    Surrounded  by  their  families,  they  soon  died. 

Wonderful  men!  Their  incomparable  energy 
might  have  changed  the  ugly  and  wretched  world 
to  a  happy  garden.  But  they  wasted  all  that  en- 
ergy in  gambling,  lying,  cheating  and  stealing. 


202 


XXI 

On  Ford's  return  to  the  institute  in  the  autumn,  a 
letter  from  his  chief  awaited  him. 

"  so  devote  yourself  to  tetanus.    Now  that  the 

bacillus  has  been  found,  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  get  an  antitetanic  serum.  Begin  at  the 
beginning,  go  on  to  the  end,  and,  when  the  result  is 
failure,  repeat  your  series  of  experiments.  Repeat 
them  over  and  over.  It  is  the  only  way  to  suc- 
ceed." 

With  a  kind  of  joy  he  set  to  work.  And  he 
abandoned,  in  order  to  work  well,  all  the  in- 
dulgences that  since  his  visit  to  Cape  May  he  had 
resumed.  Tea,  coffee,  tobacco  and  wine  no  longer 
jangled  his  nerves.  He  exercised  vigorously  for 
two  hours  every  afternoon.  Thus,  in  his  health  at 
least,  he  found  that  perfection  for  which,  hopefully 
and  vainly,  he  always  sought  in  life.  Exuberant 
health  made  every  moment  beautiful  and  precious. 
He  savoured  every  delicate  moment  as  an  epicure 
savours  every  mouthful. 

203 


Barbara  Gwynne 

His  experiments  were  to  begin  at  the  beginning. 
He  would,  therefore,  catch  his  own  microbes. 
Since  the  home  of  the  tetanus  microbe  is  the  soil, 
he  took  portions  of  stable  mould  and  inserted  them 
under  the  skin  of  guinea  pigs. 

One  of  the  guinea  pigs  developed  an  abscess.  He 
drew  a  little  matter  from  the  heart  of  the  abscess, 
and  this  matter  he  subjected  to  a  heat  of  eighty 
degrees  Centigrade — a  nearly  boiling  heat  which 
only  tetanus  microbes  can  withstand.  Then,  in 
order  to  find  out  whether  any  tetanus  microbes  now 
lived  in  the  otherwise  sterile  matter,  he  planted  it. 

He  planted  it  in  a  glass  test-tube  full  of  a  clear, 
amber-coloured  jelly.  He  set  the  planting  in  an 
incubator  room  under  an  airtight  bell- jar.  He  then 
exhausted  the  air  from  the  jar  with  a  pump.  All 
the  requirements  for  the  growth  of  tetanus  mi- 
crobes were  now  met.  If  a  few  microbes  existed  in 
the  jelly,  they  would  grow  in  twenty-four  hours 
to  great  colonies. 

In  twenty-four  hours,  on  his  return  to  the  incu- 
bator room,  colonies  of  tetanus  microbes  were 
visible  to  the  naked  eye.  They  resembled,  in  the 
tube  of  jelly,  a  fir-tree — a  pale,  vertical  line,  with 
pale,  horizontal  lines  branching  out  on  every  side. 

On  a  platinum  loop  he  drew  forth  a  mass  of 
microbes.  He  spread  this  mass  on  a  glass  slide, 
he  stained  it  with  a  blue  dye,  and  he  placed  it  be- 
204 


Barbara   Gwynne 

neath  his  microscope.  The  lens  revealed  to  him 
a  dozen  of  the  drumstick-shaped  bacilli  of  tetanus. 

No  other  microbes  were  revealed  by  the  lens — he 
had,  therefore,  a  pure  culture.  To  test  this  cul- 
ture he  injected  a  small  quantity  of  it  into  a  guinea 
pig's  hind  leg.  The  leg,  after  two  days,  stiffened. 
The  next  day  the  opposite  leg  also  stiffened.  Then 
the  muscles  of  the  back,  then  the  front  legs,  became 
stiff,  and  the  guinea  pig  died  in  tetanic  convulsions. 
Where  the  injection  had  been  made,  a  colony  of 
tetanic  bacilli  throve. 

These  bacilli  he  proceeded  to  cultivate.  And  in 
his  incubator  room,  in  the  vacuum  of  his  bell- jar, 
he  soon  had  a  great  number  of  colonies  growing  in 
a  great  number  of  test-tubes. 

Ford  worked  in  a  cleanliness  beside  which  the 
most  delicate  food  is  foul.  In  a  world  full  of 
microbes,  with  microbes  thick  in  the  air,  thick  on 
the  floor,  thick  on  walls  and  tables,  he  worked  very 
swiftly  with  instruments  and  materials  that,  by 
actual  microscopic  test,  were  free  of  every  vestige 
of  germ  life. 

And  while  he  worked  on  tetanus,  Redmond 
worked  on  snake  venom,  Tyson  on  tuberculosis,  and 
Wallace  on  malaria.  There  were  a  half-dozen 
other  young  men  at  the  institute,  one  preparing 
serums,  another  analysing  milk,  a  third  photograph- 
ing bacteria.     They  had  each  his  laboratory,  and, 

205 


Barbara  Gwynne 

under  the  veteran  Barr,  they  worked  steadily,  pa- 
tiently, cheerfully.  In  education  and  ability  they 
were  the  pick  of  the  youth  of  America.  But  they 
had  abandoned  all  hope  of  wealth;  their  salaries 
were  small;  small,  too,  their  hope  of  fame.  They 
devoted  their  lives  proudly  and  gladly  to  science. 
And  in  that  great,  clean  building,  in  the  heart  of 
a  quiet  country,  working  cheerfully  in  their  white 
dress  without  thought  of  money  or  distinction,  they 
were  a  brotherhood  of  monks  whose  god  was 
knowledge. 

There  were  similar  brotherhoods  in  Japan, 
France,  England,  Germany,  in  every  civilised  land. 
These  brotherhoods  had  sprung  up  when  the  dis- 
covery of  bacteria  changed  medicine  from  sheer 
guesswork  to  a  science.  Fired  by  that  discovery, 
which  they  deemed  the  grandest  in  all  history,  ani- 
mated by  a  love  of  knowledge  as  ardent  and  pro- 
found as  the  mediaeval  monk's  love  of  God,  they 
were  glad,  in  institutions  that  resembled  monas- 
teries, to  abandon  the  world  and  consecrate  them- 
selves to  research. 

The  world  only  heard  of  them  when  they  were 
persecuted — when  the  high-salaried  anti-vivisec- 
tionists  brought  against  them  charges  of  wanton 
cruelty. 

Ford  rose  at  eight.  He  worked  from  nine  till 
one.  After  lunch  he  rode  or  walked  with  two  or 
206 


Barbara  Gwynne 

three  companions,  or  perhaps  he  exercised  in  the 
open-air  gymnasium.  From  four  till  seven  he 
worked  again.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  worked  far 
into  the  night.  But  his  evenings,  as  a  rule,  were 
devoted  to  reading.  He  was  a  great  reader. 
There  were  few  things  he  loved  more  than  a  good 
book. 

In  a  month,  having  got  a  multitude  of  colonies 
growing,  he  set  about  the  preparation  of  an  anti- 
tetanic  serum.  He  was  working  in  new  fields,  and 
hence  he  groped  and  stumbled.  To  a  student  com- 
ing ten  years  after  him  he  would  seem  to  have 
worked  with  bandaged  eyes. 

For  his  serum  he  first  injected,  in  gradually  in- 
creasing doses,  dead  bacilli  into  a  guinea  pig. 
After  the  pig  was  become  immune  to  dead  bacilli, 
he  gave  it  injections  of  the  far  more  toxic  living 
bacilli.  It  resisted  these  as  well,  and  he  tested  it 
for  complete  immunity. 

But  his  test  failed — failed  not  so  much  on  the 
immunised  pig  as  on  the  healthy  one  wherewith 
his  work  must  be  verified.  Thus  a  small  injec- 
tion of  living  bacilli  would  sometimes  in  these  tests 
kill  a  healthy  pig,  while  again  an  enormous  injec- 
tion would  have  no  effect  whatever.    Why? 

A  weary  series  of  examinations  showed  that  al- 
ways, where  an  injection  killed,  the  bacilli  had 
multiplied;  and  always,  where  it  had  done  no 
207 


Barbara  Gwynne 

harm,  the  bacilli,  instead  of  multiplying,  had 
been  devoured  by  the  white  blood  corpuscles. 
Why? 

Here  his  work  halted.  With  bandaged  eyes  he 
groped.  Week  after  week,  month  after  month, 
he  did  not  advance  a  step. 

The  autumn  passed,  the  winter  passed,  and  the 
young  man  still  toiled  upon  this  question.  And  in 
France,  Japan,  England,  Germany,  an  army  of  sci- 
entists toiled  on  it  as  well.  Nor  did  they,  in  the 
hope  of  fame,  toil  jealously,  hiding  their  gropings 
from  one  another.  On  the  contrary,  for  one  an- 
other's enlightenment,  unselfishly  to  speed  the  ques- 
tion's solution,  they  published  every  smallest 
development  as  soon  as  it  appeared. 

Thus,  regularly,  day  after  day,  week  after  week. 
Ford  took  tetanus  microbes  from  the  soil,  cultivated 
them,  and  injected  them  into  guinea  pigs,  striving 
to  discover  why  it  was  that  sometimes  these 
microbes  killed,  while  again  they  were  themselves 
killed.  He  hoped,  but  he  did  not  really  expect,  to 
make  this  discovery.  For  he  knew  the  vastness  of 
science.  He  knew  that  he  might  devote  his  life  to 
the  tetanus  microbe,  and  yet  leave  nothing  behind 
him  but  a  mistaken  theory  at  which  posterity  would 
smile. 


208 


XXII 

Barbara's  flat  hung  high  in  air,  the  topmost  story 
of  an  enormous,  cream-coloured  hotel.  Ford,  from 
the  window  fronting  the  Park,  looked  down  on 
trees  that,  with  the  grace  of  dancers,  swayed  lan- 
guidly their  plumes  above  green  lawns  dotted  with 
tiny  black  figures,  and  above  white  driveways 
whereon  tiny  black  carriages  glided. 

"  It  is  splendid  to  live  up  so  high,"  he  said. 
"  What  floor  is  it?    The  eighteenth?  " 

"  The  nineteenth,"  she  answered. 

They  had  just  returned  from  luncheon,  and, 
seated  before  the  fire,  her  knees  crossed  and  her 
cheek  upon  her  palm,  the  young  girl  still  wore 
her  huge  and  bizarre  hat,  while  her  sable  stole, 
with  its  lining  of  ermine,  still  hung  from  her  slim 
shoulders  carelessly.  Barbara  had  played  her  last 
part,  and  they  were  to  be  married  in  a  fortnight. 

"  Won't  you  hate  to  give  up  the  stage,  dearest?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no!" 

209 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  There  is  no  need  to  give  it  up  if " 

"  But  I  want  to  give  it  up." 

"  Well,  success  hasn't  spoiled  you,"  he  said. 

*' '  Success ! '  I  had  no  success.  Perhaps,  if  I 
could  have  played  good  parts  .  .  .  But  Abercrom- 
bie's   rubbish " 

"  You  redeemed  his  rubbish." 

"And  the  beautiful  plays  there  are  in  the 
world !  "  she  cried.  "  But,  you  know,  those  plays 
aren't  '  breezy,'  they  aren't  *  wholesome,'  they  don't 
'  leave  a  good  taste  in  the  mouth.' " 

The  cold  sneer  on  her  girlish  face  made  Ford 
laugh.  He  said,  "  Tell  me  about  your  farewell 
tour." 

"  No.  Tell  me,"  she  rejoined,  "  about  your  work 
instead.     Are  you  still  working  on  tetanus  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  am  still  on  tetanus." 

"  Why  is  it  so  important  to  find  a  cure  ?  Is 
tetanus  so  dreadful?" 

"  Dreadful."  He  shook  his  head  gravely. 
"  Dreadful." 

"Tell  me  about  it.     What  is  it  like?" 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  it  starts  with  a  wound  or  an 
abrasion.  A  man,  for  example,  falls  and  scrapes 
the  skin  from  his  knee.  A  little  earth  gets  in  the 
cut.  There  happen  to  be  tetanus  germs  in  the 
earth.  They  multiply  in  the  man's  blood.  And  he 
feels,  three  or  four  days  after  his  accident,  a  slight 

210 


Barbara  Gwynne 

pain,  a  slight  stiffness,  like  cramp,  at  the  side  of 
his  jaw.    That  means  death." 

"Death?" 

"  Certain  death.  The  stiffness  increases.  It 
spreads  to  his  arms,  legs  and  back.  The  pain 
grows  horrible.  He  can't  open  his  clenched  teeth. 
The  final  stage  soon  comes,  the  stage  where  a 
touch,  a  noise,  even  a  draught  of  air,  bring  on  ter- 
rible spasms,  and  the  man's  body  on  the  bed  rises 
up,  on  heels  and  head,  in  a  high  arch." 

"  Is  he  unconscious  then  ?  "  Barbara  asked. 

"  No.  His  mind  to  the  end  is  clear.  But  he  is 
kept  drugged.  Sometimes,  in  his  convulsions,  his 
tongue  gets  between  his  teeth;  he  bites  it.  .  .  Oh, 
it  is  a  good  thing,  let  me  tell  you,  when  he  dies." 

"  And  isn't  there  any  cure  ?  " 

"  An  antitetanic  serum  is  the  only  cure.  Some- 
times it  succeeds,  sometimes  it  fails.  For  the  most 
part  it  fails.  We  haven't  yet,  you  see,  learnt  how 
to  make  it  right.  I  have  made,  myself,  four  hun- 
dred kinds  of  serum.    My  '  317  '  is  the  best." 

"  Has  your  '  317  '  cured  many  cases?  " 

"  It  has  cured  a  few  light  cases,  cases  with  a 
long  interval  between  the  wound  and  the  first 
cramp.  The  longer  that  interval,  you  know,  the 
lighter  the  case.  If  it's  an  interval  of  a  week  or 
two,  '317'  will  probably  effect  a  cure.  But  if  it's 
an  interval  of  only  a  few  days  ..." 
211 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Barbara  frowned  into  the  fire.  "  Isn't  it  dan- 
gerous," she  asked,  "  to  work  among  such  germs  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  no,  there's  no  danger,  if  you're 
careful." 

She  looked  up  at  him  from  her  armchair.  She 
said  earnestly: 

"  It  is  noble  work.  I  like  to  think  of  you  doing 
such  noble  work."  She  paused.  Her  eyes,  lifted 
to  his,  shone  with  a  grave  respect.  Then  she  smiled 
and  added,  "  But,  all  the  same,  after  we're  mar- 
ried, I  think  I'll  make  you  give  it  up." 

Moved  a  little,  he  said  hastily: 

"  Oh,  there's  no  real  danger.  Now  tell  me  about 
your  farewell  tour." 

"But  I've  got  nothing  to  tell." 

"  You  had  some  wonderful  triumphs,  I  know 
that." 

"  It's  true  I  was  the  guest  of  honour  at  a  Phila- 
delphia camphor  ball." 

"  What  on  earth  is  a  Philadelphia  camphor  ball  ?  " 

Smiling  delicately,  she  replied : 

"  It's  the  annual  subscription  dance  of  the  Phila- 
delphia aristocrats.  The  Philadelphia  aristocrats 
are  so  poor  that  they  can  only  afford  one  dance 
a  year,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  time  their  evening 
clothes  lie  packed  in  camphor.  So,  naturally,  when 
they  gather  in  a  stuffy  hall,  their  dress  gives  off 
an  odour " 

212 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Really?" 

"No,  not  really,"  she  admitted.  "It's  just  an 
ill-natured  Philadelphia  joke.  The  smell  of  camphor 
is  so  faint  you  hardly  notice  it." 

"  In  Chicago,  I  understand,  the  women  strewed 
your  path  with  flowers." 

"  Don't  laugh,"  said  Barbara.  She  frowned,  and, 
without  lifting  her  eyes  from  the  fire,  she  resumed 
in  a  low  voice : 

"  It  was  ugly,  like  a  nightmare ;  and  yet,  some- 
how, it  touched  me.  It  touched  me  horribly.  I 
can  still  see  those  grey-haired  women,  fat  and 
round-shouldered.  They  ran  before  me,  trying  to 
be  graceful ;  they  kept  turning  and  throwing  hand- 
f uls  of  roses  at  my  feet ;  some  of  them  even  danced. 
I  felt  ashamed  for  them — ashamed.  But  I  felt 
sorry  for  them,  too.  You  could  hardly  tell  from 
their  distorted  faces  whether  they  were  smiling  or 
crying." 

"Hysteria,"   said  he. 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  hysteria  means  sincerity, 
doesn't  it?  Those  ugly  women  were  so  sincere. 
Some  of  them  had  tears  in  their  eyes." 

"  In  honouring  you,"  he  mused,  "  they  were 
honouring  youth.  They  understood  at  last,  too 
late,  youth's  beauty  and  joy.  And  they  remem- 
bered wistfully  their  own  youth  that  they  had  per- 
haps wasted." 

213 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  paused. 

"  But  we  all  waste  our  youth,"  he  said.  "  Did 
McWade  continue  to  send  you  flowers  ?  " 

"  Yes.  At  every  first  night  in  every  city  there 
was  a  big  bouquet." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  he's  getting  frightfully 
rich?" 

"  I  always  thought  Jerome  would  get  rich.  He 
has  such  energy,  hasn't  he  ? " 

"  A  typical  American  business  man.  Indom- 
itable energy,  and  a  mind  unscrupulous,  coarse,  and 
a  little  mean." 

"Jerome's  mind  isn't  mean." 

"  I  think  it  is.  In  a  bargain  he*d  take  every 
unfair  advantage." 

"  But  Jerome  wouldn't  consider  it  unfair !  Busi- 
ness is  like  war  to  him,  and  nothing  is  unfair,  you 
know,  in  war." 

"  True."  Ford  frowned,  then  added  gloomily, 
"  How  long  would  a  man  last  if  he  played  fair 
in  a  game  where  his  opponents  were  all  allowed 
to  cheat?  But  some  day  there  will  be  no  inherited 
wealth.  Then  this  cheating  game  of  '  business ' 
will  disappear." 

"  No  inherited  wealth  ?  But,  if  you  had  chil- 
dren  " 

"  What  is  worse  for  a  young  man  than  an  in- 
heritance of  a  million  or  two?  What  is  better  for 
214 


Barbara  Gwynne 

him  than  work?  And  for  girls,  too,  work  would 
be  best.  A  mother  tells  her  daughters  that  her  one 
wish  for  them  is  a  happy  marriage.  A  girl's  sole 
aim  in  life  is  to  marry  well.  What  a  mean 
aim!  But  if  she  worked,  if  she  cultivated  her 
mind.  .  .  For  it's  on  ourselves,  it's  on  no  one 
else,  that  we  must  always  rely  for  our  life's 
happiness." 

"  But  I  am  relying  on  you,"  said  Barbara. 

He  began  to  pace  the  floor. 

"  You  ought  to  marry  McWade,"  he  said. 

"Jerome?     Why?" 

"  Because  he'd  be  faithful,  he'd  trust  you  im- 
plicitly.    But  I " 

He  paused  before  the  window. 

"  Devotion  like  Mc Wade's  is  rare.  He  has  been 
true  to  you  since  your  first  meeting.  With  his 
millions,  with  his  fidelity,  with  the  perfect  free- 
dom he'd  give  you.  .    .  But  I.  .    ." 

"  I  don't  love  Jerome,"  said  Barbara. 

"  *  Love ! '  "  he  cried  impatiently.    "  '  Love '  " 

But  as  he  turned  from  the  window,  as  his  eyes 
rested  once  more  upon  her  beauty,  his  mood 
changed. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I 
know  now  that  love  is  divine." 

"Divine,"  she  murmured,  gazing  into  the  flame. 
"  Divine.    Divine." 

215 


Barbara  Gwynne 

She  smiled  dreamily.  She  had  an  air  of  naive 
happiness.     It  was  Hke  a  little  child. 

And  somehow  he  felt  very  sorry  for  her.  How 
sad  that  a  soul  so  delicate  and  fine  should  ever  sink 
itself  in  a  man's  coarse  soul. 

"  And  you/'  he  said,  "  love  me !  What  can 
you — you — see  in  me  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  see  in  me  ? "  said  Barbara 
softly. 

"  But  you — your  beauty " 

"  Well,  you're  not  so  very  ugly  yourself." 

But  he  repeated  earnestly: 

"  No,  I  can't  understand  it.  Why  should  you — 
love  me  ?  " 

"Ah,  but  why  should  you  love  me?"  said  the 
young  girl. 

And  gazing  at  one  another,  admiring  one  an- 
other, they  wondered,  with  the  profound  and  beau- 
tiful humility  of  youth,  through  what  misconception 
each  had  come  to  gain  the  other's  love. 

"  You  understand  me  so,"  said  Barbara. 

"  And  you  understand  me." 

"  Wherever  I  am,"  she  said,  "  if  something 
amusing  or  interesting  happens,  my  first  thought 
is  to  tell  you." 

With  a  sigh  she  rose. 

"  Your  sympathy  ..."  she  said.  And  she  went 
slowly  to  the  balcony  window.  "  You  always  un- 
216 


Barbara   Gwynne 

derstand  me,  always.  It's  so  delightful,  your 
sympathy  ...  so  rare.  .    ." 

She  looked  forth  over  the  bay.  Her  gown,  cut 
with  strange  skill,  caressed  and  moulded  the  con- 
tours of  her  slender  figure.  Her  every  movement 
was  graceful.  In  her  elegant  attire  she  had  the 
free,  unconscious  grace  of  a  young  animal. 

"  You  make  me  very  happy,  Barbara.'* 

The  pure  profile,  delicate  and  proud,  turned  to 
welcome  him  as  he  advanced,  and  side  by  side  they 
stood  at  the  lofty  window.  The  sun  drenched  the 
grey  city  with  golden  light.  On  the  bay's  blue 
floor  sunbeams  danced  madly,  like  a  myriad  of  shin- 
ing insects.  Ships  moved,  as  small  as  toys,  upon 
that  vast,  flat,  coruscating  splendour.  Each  ship 
drew  religiously  a  black  trail  of  smoke  across  the 
radiance  of  the  October  afternoon. 

"  I  wish  we  were  on  one  of  those  ships,"  she 
said. 

"  We  will  be  soon,"  said  he. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  We'll  take  the  southern  route.  We'll  slip  from 
frost  into  May  sunshine.  Our  first  stop  will  be 
Gibraltar.  At  Gibraltar  we'll  ride  in  little  yellow 
carriages  up  hills  shaded  by  lemon-trees.  Mon- 
keys will  peer  down  at  us  from  the  peaks,  and 
Spanish  girls  will  sell  us  fresh-plucked  pome- 
granates." 

217 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  How  jolly !  Where,  though,  will  we  spend  the 
winter  ?  " 

"  On  the  Riviera.  In  my  mother's  white  villa 
near  Monte  Carlo.  It  is  on  a  high  cliff;  cinder- 
grey  mountains  rise  behind  it;  but  its  gardens  are 
gay  with  bees  and  flowers  all  winter  long.  Every 
day  we'll  lunch  on  the  terrace.  Our  table  will  be 
set  under  a  palm  on  an  enormous  terrace  that  looks 
out  over  the  shining  sea.'* 

"And  afterwards,  our  home,  where  will  that 
be?" 

"  Wherever  you  wish." 

"  Our  home,"  she  murmured  dreamily.  "  Our 
home  .  .  .  where  we'll  grow  old  .  .  .  grow  old 
together  .  .  .  with  children,  perhaps  .  .  .  grand- 
children. .  .  Can  you  imagine  me  a  grandmother  ?  " 

They  smiled.  It  was  absurd  to  think  that  they 
fwould  ever  grow  old. 

"  Oh,  how  could  you  believe,"  she  cried,  "  that 
marriage  was  ugly  ?  " 

Her  reproachful  eyes  looked  into  his.  Her 
beauty  enveloped  him  in  glittering  light. 

"  Barbara  .   .   .  kiss  me.  .   .  Barbara.  .   . " 

Laughing  breathlessly,  she  turned  to  him  with  a 
tender  violence,  a  soft  and  passionate  grace. 


2l8 


XXIII 

Ford,  leaving  his  microscope,  glanced  at  the  card : 
MiLLiCENT  Mortimer  Miller. 

"  Tell  her  I'll  be  down  in  a  minute,"  he  said. 

And  slipping  off  his  white  overall,  he  descended 
to  the  reception  room. 

"  Good-morning,  Dr.  Ford." 

"  Good-morning,  madam." 

He  regarded  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller  with  a 
lively  interest.  She  was  thin  and  restless;  she  had 
copper-coloured  hair  and  rather  fine  eyes ;  she  was 
about  forty-seven  years  of  age.  "  Superbly  sexed  " 
— the  phrase  ran  through  his  mind  from  one  of 
her  poems.  "  Superbly  sexed."  What,  precisely, 
had  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller  meant  when  she 
wrote  "  superbly  sexed  ?  " 

He  smiled,  but  her  first  words  caused  his  smile 
to  fade. 

"  Here  is  an  affidavit,  doctor,  that  John  Tomilson 
has  made  about  the  horrible  atrocities  inflicted  on 
animals  in  this  institute." 
219 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Tomilson  is  a  discharged  employee.  What  did 
his  affidavit  cost  you,  madam?" 

"  What  it  cost  is  not  the  question.  The  ques- 
tion is,  are  these  charges  true  ?  " 

She  handed  him  the  statement.  Sensational 
and  crude,  it  had  manifestly  been  composed  by 
a  Dispatch  writer.  Returning  it,  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  One  long,  malicious  lie." 

«  But " 

"  Scientists  are  not  fiends/'  he  interrupted. 
"  Scientists,  as  a  class,  are  above  the  average. 
They're  men  of  imagination,  sympathy.  Why  ac- 
cuse them  of  inflicting  wanton  pain  ?  " 

"  But- " 

"  Pain  they  do  inflict,  pain  and  death — like  butch- 
ers, you  know — for  the  benefit  of  mankind.  Yes, 
they  inflict  an  abundance  of  pain  and  death  in  the 
course  of  their  experiments  on  animals  for  the 
cure  of  disease.  And  either  they  must  experiment 
on  animals,  or  they  must  experiment  on  men,  or 
the  progress  of  medicine  must  halt." 

"  In  God's  great  scheme — '■ — " 

"  '  God's  great  scheme  ? '  Oh,  let  us  stick  to 
the  point.  The  point  is  this:  Man  has  the  right 
to  sacrifice  animals  for  the  good  of  the  race.  Man 
sacrifices  himself  for  the  race's  good.  Shall  he 
hesitate,  then,  over  a  rabbit  or  a  rat?'* 
220 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  But  he  doesn't  sacrifice  himself,  Dr.  Ford.  If 
you  vivisectors  would  vivisect  one  another ! " 

"  Lazear  and  Carroll  and  Agramonte,  three 
American  physicians,  submitted  their  bodies  to  ex- 
periment for  the  cure  of  yellow  fever.  Lazear  died, 
Carroll  never  fully  recovered.  But  still  further 
tests  v^ere  needed;  it  was  necessary  to  find  out 
whether  the  yellow  fever  germ  would  pass  through 
a  filter;  and  some  young  American  soldiers  oifered 
themselves.  Two  of  the  young  soldiers  died.  .  . 
And  yellow  fever  was  stamped  out  in  Cuba.  .  . 
But  is  it  not  unfair  to  ask  heroes  to  die  when  mice 
or  guinea  pigs  can  take  their  places  ?  " 

"  Still " 

But  he  rose,  flushed  and  angry,  to  end  the  inter- 
view. The  "  antivivisectionists  "  were  either  cranks 
or  grafters,  and  this  woman  was  a  crank  and 
grafter  both.    Let  her  stick  to  her  erotics ! 

But  the  morning's  fine,  clear  serenity  was  lost, 
and  he  resumed  his  work  with  a  troubled  mind. 
"  Superbly  sexed."  What  an  ass  she  was !  And  a 
million  people  would  read  her  attack  to-morrow, 
and  the  State  would  probably  withdraw  its  promise 
to  aid  Barr's  splendid  experiments  in  bovine  tu- 
berculosis, and  all  those  long  and  costly  tests  on 
tubercular  cattle,  halted  midway,  would  be  lost. 

In  his  anger  gripping  too  tight  the  test-tube  in 
his  hand.  Ford  crushed  the  thin  glass. 

221 


Barbara  Gwynne 


"My  God!" 

He  stared  at  his  palm.  There  were  three  cuts 
across  it;  they  had  not  yet  begun  to  bleed;  their 
edges  were  smeared  with  glass  splinters  and  an 
amber-coloured  culture  of  tetanus  bacilli. 

Tearing  the  cuts  open,  he  ran  to  the  spigot 
and  washed  them.  He  disinfected  them  thor- 
oughly. 

"  If  the  bacilli  are  dead.  .  .  If  they  are  only 
dead!" 

He  must  see  them  in  the  microscope.  He  must 
know  whether  they  were  dead  or  not.  Dead,  they 
would  be  harmless.     But  living  .    .    . 

He  hurried  to  his  table.  Bending  over  the 
broken  tube,  he  took  up  a  little  of  the  culture  in 
a  platinum  loop.  His  wounded  hand  hampered 
him,  but  he  worked  with  desperate  haste.  Repeat- 
edly, though,  he  seized  the  wrong  vial,  he  ran  to 
the  wrong  cabinet.  The  sHde,  almost  finished, 
dropped  and  broke.  He  leapt  to  the  cupboard  for 
another  slide,  then  doubled  back,  remembering  that 
the  box  was  on  the  table  after  all.  And  continu- 
ally he  trembled  as  with  ague.  Continually  he 
seemed  to  be  enduring  some  incredible,  nightmare 
torture  which  the  microscope  would  end. 

But  when  the  slide  was  ready  at  last,  he  hesi- 
tated to  look  at  it. 

*'  Life  or  death,"  he  muttered. 

222 


Barbara  Gwynne 

And  he  began  to  pace  the  floor.  Ugly  thoughts 
buzzed  like  fat  flies  in  his  brain.  He  thought  of 
tetanus  convulsions,  Millicent  Mortimer  Miller, 
death;  though  in  the  turmoil  of  his  mind  he  did 
not  really  grasp  those  thoughts. 

But  suddenly  the  full  horror  of  death  stabbed 
him.  He  stopped  short.  His  face  contorted,  his 
fists  clenched,  he  cried  with  subdued  violence : 

"For  me?     Oh!     Not  for  me!" 

And  he  ran  to  the  microscope  for  succour,  he 
seated  himself  upon  his  stool,  he  peered  down  the 
tube.  Then,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  he  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  breast. 

He  had  seen  live  bacilli,  shaped  like  drumsticks, 
moving  slowly  across  the  luminous  field. 


The  young  man,  weak  and  faint,  sat  with  his 
elbow  on  the  table  and  his  cheek  on  his  palm,  gaz- 
ing from  the  window  at  the  garden.  The  garden 
was  serene.  The  sun  shone  on  the  goldfish  pond. 
How  beautiful  .  .  .  beautiful.  .  .  Ah,  just  to  sit 
like  this,  just  to  gaze  hke  this  out  of  a  window 
on  a  garden  drenched  in  autumn  sunshine — who 
would  ask  more  of  life?  But  he — he  was  going 
to  die! 

"No!"  he  whispered.    "No!" 
223 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Strength  returned,  hope  returned.  He  leapt  to 
his  feet,  and,  under  the  illusion  that  his  friends 
would  end  his  torture,  he  ran  down  the  long  hall 
shouting. 

His  friends  surrounded  him.  They  were  calm 
and  grave  and  kind.  And  surrounded  by  that 
friendly,  white-clad  circle,  he  smiled  apologetically; 
the  quivering  tension  of  his  muscles  relaxed. 

Redmond,  leading  him  upstairs,  gave  him  an  in- 
jection of  his  own  "  317." 

"  And  now,"  said  Redmond,  "  we'll  take  a  drive. 
Barr  will  be  here  on  our  return." 

But  he  complained: 

"  rd  rather  walk — an  all-day  walk,  as  hard 
as  I  could  do  it.  Then,  to-night,  I'd  sleep,  per- 
haps." 

**  No,  old  man,  a  drive  will  be  better." 

They  drove  for  two  hours,  in  a  still  sunshine, 
down  quiet  lanes,  through  woods  of  gold  and  scar- 
let that  were  like  cathedrals  in  their  dreamy 
splendour. 

"  Do  you  like  novels.  Ford  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  some  novels.*' 

"  Then,  this  afternoon,  we  might  have  a  little 
reading.     What  sort  of  novels  do  you  like  ?  " 

Redmond  talked ;  he  saw  to  it  that  Ford  listened 
and  answered;  and  all  through  the  ride  it  seemed 
to  Ford  that  he  was  enduring  an  incredible,  a 
224 


Barbara  Gwynne 

nightmare  torture  which  would  cease  when  he  met 
Barr. 


"  Ford,"  said  Professor  Barr,  "  you  know  better 
than  any  of  us  the  virtues  of  '317/  But  the  next 
few  days  are  going  to  try  your  nerves.  You'll  be 
calm,  just  as  calm  as  you  can;  you'll  keep  your 
mind  occupied,  eh?  Don't  yield  to  any  morbid 
desire  for  solitude.  At  night  a  sedative  may  be 
necessary." 

"  It  worries  me  about  Miss  Gwynne." 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  were  to  have  been  married 
in  a  few  days." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  see  her?" 

"  No." 

"  I  must  send  her  a  message  of  some  kind." 

"  ril  call  at  Miss  Gwynne's  this  afternoon  my- 
self." 


The  day  passed,  passed  with  walks  and  books 
and  argument,  and  not  for  a  minute  was  he  left  to 
brood  alone.  The  night,  too,  passed:  a  night  of 
drugged  sleep.  But  when  he  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  imagined  that  he  felt  a  slight  stiffness  at 
the  side  of  the  jaw.  He  knew  that,  even  in  the 
most  virulent  case  of  tetanus,  this  symptom  could 
225 


Barbara  Gwynne 

not  manifest  itself  so  early.  There,  nevertheless, 
it  was.  Opening  and  closing  his  mouth,  he  deemed 
that  the  muscles  worked  stiffly. 

Redmond  entered,  and  he  forgot  his  imaginary 
pain.  He  rose^  he  forced  himself  to  eat  a  little 
breakfast,  and  then  the  carriage  appeared,  and  the 
young  men  drove  again  till  luncheon  time. 

With  overcoats  and  rugs  they  spent  the  after- 
noon on  the  lawn  by  the  fishpond  in  the  sun.  Red- 
mond read  aloud,  and,  to  assure  himself  of  Ford's 
attention,  he  argued  on  subjects  brought  up  by 
his  reading.  Ford  lay  back  in  a  deck-chair,  reply- 
ing in  faint  and  weary  tones  to  his  friend's  ques- 
tions. It  seemed  to  Ford  that  he  was  living  in  a 
black  nightmare,  a  black  nightmare  of  unreal  tor- 
ture, which  would  end  in  four  days'  time.  If  four 
days  passed  without  the  first  symptom's  appear- 
ance, then  he  might  hope,  perhaps,  for  a  mild,  a 
curable  attack. 

He  thought  of  death.  Had  he  ever  really  be- 
lieved that  he  would  die  ?  Now  and  then,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  solitude — lying  awake  at  night,  or  walking 
in  cold,  bright  weather  by  the  sea — he  had  been 
suddenly  struck  by  the  thought  that  some  day 
years  hence,  he,  an  old  man,  would  lie  dying;  and 
in  the  horror  of  that  thought  he  had  writhed  in 
indescribable  anguish;  he  had  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, threshed  about  with  his  arms ;  and  thus  he  had 
226 


Barbara  Gwynne 

driven  the  thought  away  before  it  came  quite  home 
to  him. 

But  now 

"  I  claim,"  said  Redmond,  "  that  a  dog's  affec- 
tion is  purely  parasitic." 

"  You  might  as  well  claim  that  a  wife's  affection 
is  purely  parasitic." 

«  Well " 

But  Ford's  mind  returned  to  death  again.  He 
thought  of  the  Heaven  of  his  childhood.  Why, 
even  in  childhood,  he  had  not  believed  in  Heaven. 
What  simian  intelligences,  then,  were  those  that 
in  maturity  believed 

"  Look  here,"  said  Redmond,  "  I  want  you  to 
listen." 

"All  right,  old  man,  I'll  try.  I'm  awfully  wor- 
ried, though." 

"  Take  a  swallow  of  this." 

He  sipped  the  brown  drug,  a  sense  of  peace 
stole  over  him.   .    . 

But  every  morning,  awaking  from  a  long,  sound 
sleep,  he  felt  that  pain  and  stiffness  of  the  jaw. 
And  as  he  lay  rubbing  his  cheek,  vivid  pictures 
of  tetanic  convulsions  rose  before  him.  He  saw 
men  biting  their  tongues,  he  saw  men  whose  arched 
bodies  rested  on  head  and  heels  alone.  Terrified, 
he  summoned  Redmond.  .    . 

The  third  day  was  the  most  comfortable  since 
227 


Barbara  Gwynne 

his  accident.  There  had  been  a  consultation  in  the 
morning,  and  Professor  Barr  and  Dr.  Howard  had 
shown  themselves  well  pleased.  Ford,  after  the 
consultation,  beheld  on  all  sides  relieved  and  cheer- 
ful faces. 

But  in  the  evening  of  that  comfortable  third  day- 
he  became  restless.  Though  he  retired  later  than 
usual,  he  could  not  sleep.  A  strange,  vague  horror 
possessed  him.  His  narcotic  was  doubled,  and, 
with  a  weary  sigh,  he  glided  into  drugged  uncon- 
sciousness. 

He  awoke.  The  October  sunlight  streamed  into 
the  room.  The  cold,  pure  air  filled  him  with  a 
sense  of  joy.  Then,  suddenly,  he  clapped  his  hand 
to  his  cheek;  the  serenity  of  his  face  changed  to 
distorted  anguish;  tears  filled  his  eyes. 

"  No  hope,"  he  whispered.    "  There's  no  hope." 

And  sitting  erect,  his  hand  pressed  to  his  cheek, 
he  rocked  back  and  forth. 

The  pain,  the  stiffness — he  really  felt  those  symp- 
toms now.  And  conscious  that  he  was  going  to 
die  after  a  few  days  of  horrible  and  atrocious  suf- 
fering, he  pitied  himself  profoundly.  He  wept  for 
his  hard  fate. 

For  him  no  more  the  beauty  of  the  sunshine,  the 

beauty  of  the  moonlight,  the  beauty  of  the  windy, 

tumbling  sea.     For  him  no  more  the   beauty  of 

girls'  minds  and  faces,  the  beauty  of  Barbara,  Bar- 

228 


Barbara  Gwynne 

bara  in  whom  alone  he  had  found  perfection.  For 
him  the  grave,  the  cold,  black  grave,  with  its 
worms. 

He  would  never  know  now  whether  marriage 
was  fine  or  vile.  He  would  never  know  now 
whether  old  age  was  terrible  or  calm.  Be  the  cup 
of  life  sweet  or  bitter,  he  had  wanted  to  drain  it 
to  the  dregs.  .  .  But  this  was  the  end.  It  was 
all  to  end  like  this  ...  his  strength,  his  intelli- 
gence, his  splendid  thoughts,  his  hopes  ...  all  to 
end  like  this,  as  though  he  were  a  bug,  an  ant. 

Alas,  in  the  vastness  of  the  universe,  men  were 
no  more  than  ants.  In  the  vastness  of  the  uni- 
verse men,  infesting  the  earth,  were  no  more 
than  the  tetanus  bacilli  that  infested  his  own 
body. 

The  thought,  somehow,  strengthened  him.  He 
rang  for  his  attendant.  Death,  after  all,  was  noth- 
ing.   It  was  this  fear  of  death. 

Well,  they  would  keep  him  drugged.  He  must 
get  himself  thoroughly  drugged  at  once.  Hearing 
footsteps,  he  composed  his  countenance;  he  took 
his  hand  from  his  cheek.  On  Redmond's  entry 
he  contrived  to  smile. 

But  Redmond's  cheery  air  vanished  on  the 
threshold. 

"  All  right  ? "  said  Redmond,  in  a  loud,  strange 
voice. 

229 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Ford  smiled  disdainfully.  .  .  These  helpless 
fools.   .    .   "  It  has  begun,"  he  said. 

And  he  regarded  Redmond  disdainfully.  But 
there  was  something  in  Redmond's  face  .  .  .  some- 
thing unsuspected,  indescribably  beautiful  .  .  . 
that  melted  his  disdain.  He  turned  to  the 
wall. 

"  Old  man/'  said  Redmond,  stroking  his  shoul- 
der, "  it  has  kept  off  till  the  fourth  day.  That's 
good,  you  know." 

"  I  feel,"  said  Ford,  "  like  a  wounded  rat.  I 
want  to  crawl  into  some  black  hole  .  .  .  and 
brood.  .    ." 

"  Nonsense.     Swallow  this." 

The  drug  soothed  and  stupefied  his  mind.  But 
the  pain  in  his  jaw  increased  steadily.  He  kept 
trying  to  open  his  mouth.  The  pain  then  jumped 
like  a  toothache. 

"Lockjaw,"  he  mused.     "Lockjaw.   .    ." 

But,  after  all,  he  was  half  asleep. 

"  Drugged  like  this,"  he  mused,  "  I  don't  really 
suffer." 


In  the  evening  he  awoke  with  a  clear  and  serene 

mind.     Carr,    the    noted    anaesthetist,    sat  beside 

him.     There  was  an  odour  of  chloroform  in  the 
air. 

230 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  Carr,'*  he  said,  "where  is  Redmond?" 

But  Redmond,  it  seemed,  was  bending  over  him. 

*'  Redmond,  send  for  Barbara  Gwynne,  will 
you?" 

"  Yes ;  I'll  go  and  get  her  at  once." 

While  he  awaited  Barbara,  he  lay  and  regarded 
Carr  thoughtfully.  Carr,  under  his  gaze,  seemed 
embarrassed,  whereat  he  smiled  with  sly  amuse- 
ment. He  felt  strangely  remote  from  the  troubled 
Carr;  remote,  superior,  like  a  white  explorer  with 
a  savage.  And  in  a  mood  of  condescending  kind- 
ness he  opened  his  lips  to  tell  Carr  a  splendid  and 
joyous  secret,  to  tell  him  how  easy  it  was  to  die, 
to  tell  him  what  a  foolish,  wretched  mistake  was 
all  this  fear  of  death.  But  the  secret  would  be 
difficult  to  tell  ...  it  hurt  his  jaw  to  talk  .  .  . 
and  he  was  tired.  .  .  So  he  contented  himself  with 
touching  Carr's  knee  and  whispering: 

"  Smooth  the  road  well  for  me." 

The  door  opened.  Barbara,  tall  and  slender  in 
her  black  velvet  gown,  advanced  with  slow  steps. 
She  wore  an  ermine  stole,  and  her  hand,  hanging 
at  her  side,  was  thrust  into  an  ermine  muff.  A 
huge  hat  threw  its  soft  shadow  on  her  beautiful 
face. 

"  You  have  worn,"  he  said,  "  the  dress  I  like 
best." 

And,  as  his  attendants  withdrew,  he  looked  up  at 
231 


Barbara  Gwynne 

her  gaily.    Was  her  cheek  wet?    No;  for  she  was 
smiling. 

"  Get  well/'  she  said. 

She  stood  over  him.  She  enveloped  him  in  the 
warm  radiance  of  her  young  and  virginal  beauty. 
Strange !  her  beauty  no  longer  thrilled  him. 

"  And  to-morrow,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  ''  would 
have  been  our  wedding-day." 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  put  up  her 
muff  before  her  face.  He  heard  a  faint  sigh. 
But,  when  she  lowered  the  muff,  she  was  still 
smiling. 

"We  must  postpone  our  wedding  a  week  or 
two,"  she  said. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  am  going  on  a 
long  journey." 

"  You'll  be  back,"  said  Barbara,  "  soon." 

"  Perhaps.  But  it  is  a  long  journey  ...  a  hor- 
rible journey  .  .  .  through  swamps  writhing  with 
reptiles.  .   ." 

"  But  you'll  return,"  said  the  young  girl. 

He  smiled  faintly.  He  shook  his  head.  She  bent 
over  him,  and  he  tried  in  vain  to  feel  sorry  for 
her. 

"Ah,  come  back  soon,"  she  sighed. 

But,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  shook  his  head  ob- 
stinately, and  there  was  something  elfin  and  mock- 
ing in  his  smile. 

232 


Barbara  Gwynne 


"  Ah,  come  back  soon." 
"  Perhaps." 


But  he  never  came  back.  She  saw  him  but  once 
more  alive.  The  room  was  darkened,  and  at  his 
bedside  sat  the  ansesthetist. 

She  advanced  slowly  in  the  dim  light.  The  anaes- 
thetist bent  forward,  a  white  cone  of  chloroform 
in  his  hand,  watching  the  figure  on  the  bed  with 
the  tense  and  breathless  devotion  of  an  antique 
slave.  Now  and  then  a  kind  of  ripple  passed  over 
the  figure,  the  anaesthetist  applied  deftly  his  chloro- 
form cone,  the  ripple  ceased. 

Her  heart  bursting  with  grief  and  terror,  Bar- 
bara looked  at  the  unfortunate  young  man.  He 
lay  on  his  back  in  a  rigid  attitude.  His  head  was 
strangely  retroverted.    His  eyes  were  closed. 

She  kissed  the  cold  5hd  knotted  brow. 

A  kind  of  shiver  seized  him.  The  head  drew 
further  back.  The  anaesthetist  applied  the  chloro- 
form cone.  The  body  rose  up  in  a  frightful 
arch.  .  . 

Barbara  ran  from  the  room  with  a  cry  of  horror 
and  rebellion. 


233 


XXIV 

In  the  middle  of  a  huge  office  full  of  clerks  stood 
a  kind  of  glass  hutch,  through  the  clear  and  shin- 
ing walls  whereof  Jerome  was  visible.  Jerome, 
bent  over  a  desk,  worked  hard.  But  his  eyes  looked 
very  tired. 

At  a  table  before  the  glass  hutch  Bill  Stroud 
presided,  a  post  Bill  had  held  since  the  episode  of 
the  bomb. 

The  episode  of  the  bomb  had  followed  that  won- 
derful cotton  combination  wherein  so  many  small 
investors — carpenters,  doctors,  dressmakers,  clergy- 
men— lost  their  little  all. 

The  bomb  was  a  "  protest."  The  bomb  thrower, 
a  frail  youth,  entered  the  huge  office  and  advanced 
towards  the  rear  room  that  Jerome  then  occupied. 
He  balanced  the  bomb  in  his  outstretched  hand 
cautiously,  and  in  a  shrill  voice  he  protested  that, 
till  laws  were  made  to  protect  the  honourable  poor 
from  rich  thieves,   force  must  protect  them.     So 

234 


Barbara  Gwynne 

saying,  he  drew  back  his  arm  as  if  to  hurl  the 
bomb,  and  he  quickened  to  a  trot  his  progress  to- 
wards the  door  marked  *'  Mr.  McWade." 

And  from  his  path  all  Mr.  McWade's  most 
trusted  advisers,  all  his  most  favoured  aides,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  clerks  and  bookkeepers,  fled  like 
the  wind.  At  the  exit  they  jammed.  Their  yells, 
as  they  climbed  over  one  another  to  get  out,  made 
a  horrible  noise. 

The  amazed  Jerome  appeared.  He  saw  the  up- 
lifted bomb.  He  saw  his  fleeing  men.  And  he 
thought,  face  to  face  with  death,  of  a  strange 
word,  a  word  he  never  used,  the  word  loyalty. 

Loyalty.  .  .  If  some  one  would  steal  up  from 
the  rear.  .   .  But  loyalty  existed  no  longer. 

Then  Bill  Stroud,  the  worthless  drunkard.  Bill 
whom  he  employed  solely  for  old  times'  sake.  Bill 
dropped  his  brush,  he  leapt  from  his  ladder,  he  tore 
the  bomb  from  the  youth's  thin  hand,  he  hurled  it 
through  the  window — ^bang!  It  exploded  in  Wall 
Street,  killing  only  a  policeman. 

Since  then  the  hutch  of  glass,  since  then  Bill's 
post  of  guardian,  since  then,  too,  Jerome's  grad- 
ual decline.  For  the  "  protest "  had,  to  a  certain 
slight  extent,  achieved  its  end.  A  small  group  of 
legislators  had  begun  to  clamour  for  laws  that 
would  indeed  protect  the  honourable  poor  from  the 
thefts    of   the   rich,   and    these   legislators,    called 

235 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  demagogues  "  and  "  fomenters  of  class  hatred," 
had  temporarily  convinced  the  poor  that  the  word 
of  a  Wall  Street  financier  was  not  the  same  thing 
as  the  word  of  an  honest  man.  That,  of  course, 
was  bad  for  business.  That  was  the  cause 
of  Jerome's  haggard  eyes. 


Barbara  entered.  A  thrill  ran  through  the  clerks 
and  bookkeepers,  and  Bill  in  his  blue  suit  hastened 
to  welcome  the  beautiful  young  actress. 

"  Good-morning,  Bill." 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Barbara.  I  certainly  am 
glad  to  see  you  again." 

"It  is  like  old  times,  isn't  it?  I  don't  suppose 
you  keep  chickens  any  more  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am ;  no  more.  Lambs  is  the  only  things 
that  pay  in  Wall  Street." 

Jerome,  as  they  approached  his  glass  retreat, 
heard  their  voices,  and  lifted  his  weary  head.  Then, 
beaming  with  delight,  he  rose  and  hurried  forth. 

"  This  is  a  surprise !  " 

"Jerome,"  said  Barbara,  in  her  languid,  gentle 
and  cold  voice,  "  you  look  tired." 

"Yes,  I  haven't  slept  well  for  a  month  or  two. 
It's  nothing." 

He  led  her  into  the  hutch,  he  seated  her  in  his 
236 


Barbara  Gwynne 

luxurious  desk-chair,  and,  taking  the  other  straight- 
backed  chair  himself,  he  said,  eagerly  and  gladly: 

"  Now  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

She  hesitated,  gazing  into  the  distance.  Her  hat, 
strangely  graceful,  set  off  the  purity  of  her  profile, 
and  under  the  tilted  hat-brim  her  heavy  hair  flowed 
in  clear  and  lustrous  waves. 

"  Jerome,  do  you  still  want  to  back  me  ?  " 

He  started.  That  his  offer,  refused  a  hundred 
times,  should  be  accepted  now!  But,  feigning  a 
joyous  enthusiasm,  he  cried: 

"Of  course  I  do!" 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  I  think  I'll  let  you." 

"  Good !  "  shouted  the  ruined  man. 

She  slowly  turned  her  eyes  upon  him.  And 
bathed  in  her  eyes'  soft  light,  he  forgot  his  tot- 
tering fortunes;  he  felt  ineffably  happy,  ineffably 
pure  and  clean  and  good,  as  though  he  were  a  lit- 
tle boy  again.  Barbara,  regarding  without  seeing 
him,  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"  In  the  past  it  didn't  matter  what  I  played.  I 
knew  my  parts  were  worthless;  but  I  did  my  best 
in  them;  they  seemed,  somehow,  to  live,  worthless 
as  they  were.  But  when  I  went  back  to  the  stage, 
I  resolved  to  take  my  work  seriously.  How  can  I 
take  it  seriously,  though,  when  it  is  trash?  No, 
I  must  play  good  parts,  or  ...  or  ...  I  don't 
know  what  will  become  of  me." 

237 


Barbara  Gwynne 

She  twisted  together  her  long  white  hands  lying 
in  her  lap. 

"  Get  your  own  theatre/'  said  Jerome.  "  Engage 
your  own  company.     Play  anything  you  choose." 

"  If  I  could  succeed.   .    .  " 

"  Oh,  you'll  succeed.  Why,  Jake  Abercrombie 
has  grown  rich  off  you." 

"  His  new  play,  Jerome,  is  the  last  straw.  I 
have  had  a  good  many  maudlin  parts,  but  the  part 
of  Sweet " 

"Sweet?" 

"  Sweet  is  the  name  of  the  heroine  and  the  name 
of  the  play  as  well.  '  Sweet ! '  She  is  a  ragged 
slum  dweller,  but,  oh,  so  beautiful  and  good !  She 
is  always  praying.  You  first  see  her,  in  her  long 
white  nightgown,  kneeling  in  silent  prayer  at  her 
bedside  in  her  little  room.  She  believes  in  prayer, 
and  she  has  reason  to.  Her  prayers  change  a 
drunken  and  libertine  old  millionaire  to  a  kind  of 
city  missionary.  They  change  a  burglar  to  a  Sal- 
vation Army  captain.  They  reform  a  wifebeater, 
an  opium  smoker  and  a  financier — yes,  a  financier 
like  you,  Jerome — and  in  the  last  act  they  prevent 
a  murderer  from  murdering  her  millionaire  con- 
vert. Of  course  she  marries  her  convert.  And 
that's  the  play,  Jerome — a  foolish  lie  about  the 
power  of  prayer.  No,  I  can't  stand  it!" 
238 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  scorn  in  her  voice  amazed  him.  Her  cheeks 
were  flushed,  her  eyes  glittered  angrily.  Yet 
*'  Sweet "  seemed  a  good  play  to  him,  a  play  with 
a  good  moral  "  uplift."    He  stammered : 

"Of  course  the  millionaire  is  too  old  for  Sweet." 
"  He  is  Mr.  Abercrombie's  age,"  said  Barbara. 
"  Mr.  Abercrombie's  heroes  are  always  his  own 
age." 

"Well,  what  theatre  will  you  take?  The 
Coronet?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Jerome ;  that  is  too  big.     I  want  to 
begin  in  a  little  theatre — the  Cortlandt,  perhaps." 
"  You  don't  want  to  begin  in  a  small  way !  " 
"  Yes,  I  do." 

"  But  what  is  the  good  of  capital,  then?  " 
"  First  I  must  see  if  I  can  fill  a  small  theatre." 
"  But  you're  filling  a  big  theatre  now ! " 
"  Yes,  in  '  The  Queen  of  Divitia.'    My  new  plays, 
though,  will  only  appeal  to  the  intelligent." 

"  Nonsense !  Take  the  Coronet.  I  know  you 
prefer  it  in  your  heart." 


At  first  Mr.  Abercrombie  would  not  hear  of 
Barbara's  resignation.  Then,  when  he  realised  that 
he  must  lose  her,  tears  filled  his  large,  dark  eyes, 
and  in  an  ugly  scene  he  berated  her  for  ingratitude. 

239 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  part  of  Sweet  he  transferred  to  Thais  Ran- 
some,  a  pretty  girl  of  eighteen,  and  to  Thais  also  he 
transferred  Miss  Hanch. 


Barbara  chose  for  her  first  play  "  Hilda  Muller." 
For  with  a  god's  power,  it  seemed  to  her,  the  stern 
old  Russian  playwright  revealed  in  "  Hilda  Mul- 
ler  "  all  the  strange  beauty  and  mystery  of  girl- 
hood. 

She  had  no  difficulty  in  forming  her  company. 
The  actors  and  actresses  she  desired,  the  really 
good  actors  and  actresses,  were  indeed  so  glad  to 
appear  in  a  play  like  "  Hilda  Muller  "  that  they 
would  have  joined  her  company  even  at  a 
sacrifice. 

And  the  rehearsals  were  a  joy.  These  young  men 
and  women  had  never  shared  in  such  rehearsals  be- 
fore. In  the  past  they  had  always  set  up  at  their  re- 
hearsals an  imaginary  public,  a  public  as  crude  and 
restless  as  a  child  of  five  or  six  years,  and  they 
had  degraded  their  art  to  this  public's  level,  had 
acted  solely  to  please  it,  solely  to  catch  and  hold 
its  wandering  attention.  They  had  capered  and 
crowed  before  it,  as  a  young  father  capers  and 
crows  to  amuse  his  babe. 

But  now,  now  for  the  first  time,  they  could  act 
240 


Barbara  Gwynne 

to  please  themselves,  they  could  act  to  please  a 
public  as  intelligent  as  themselves;  now,  careless 
of  all  else,  they  could  do  their  best,  their  very 
best.  No  wonder,  then,  the  rehearsals,  under  Bar- 
bara's hand,  grew  with  amazing  speed  into  that 
firm  and  lovely  form  of  which  she  dreamed. 

The  success  of  the  rehearsals  awed  her.  She 
was  glad  now  that,  taking  Jerome's  advice,  she  had 
leased  the  huge  and  expensive  Coronet  Theatre. 
And  though  in  their  advance  notices  the  critics 
were  inclined  to  sneer,  some  even  accusing  her  of 
a  desire  to  "  elevate  the  stage,"  she  approached  the 
first  night  of  "  Hilda  Muller  "  with  almost  perfect 
confidence. 

But  alas,  from  the  first  night,  the  critics  and 
the  public  were  alike  indiflferent  to  '*  Hilda 
Muller's  "  austere  beauty. 

Barbara  overcame  her  disappointment  quickly. 
She  would  not  for  an  instant  admit  herself  beaten. 
She  said  that,  with  a  weapon  like  "  Hilda  Muller  " 
to  fight  with,  she  could  never  be  beaten.  This  tem- 
porary set-back  was  her  own  fault — she  should 
have  insisted  on  a  small  theatre — and  she  declared 
courageously  that  they  must  now  shift  to  a  small 
theatre  at  once.  But  to  this  shift  Jerome  would  not 
consent. 

Amid  the  mocking  laughter  of  the  critics,  Bar- 
bara played  "  Hilda  Muller  "  for  eight  weeks  at  the 
241 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Coronet  to  half-empty  houses,  while  at  the  Aber- 
crombie  Colonial  next  door,  spurred  on  by  the 
critics*  almost  delirious  praises,  "  Sweet "  ran  to 
record  business.  Her  manager  then  drew  heavily 
on  Jerome,  and  "  Hilda  Muller  "  went  on  tour. 


To  Jerome  that  winter  was  a  war,  a  war  wherein 
he  fought  alone,  the  whole  world  against  him. 

Even  Barbara  seemed  to  be  against  him.  Bar- 
bara, had  she  known,  would  have  helped  him.  She 
would  have  helped  him  as  he  had  helped  her  on 
the  first  night  of  "  Vassa."  But,  now  that  she 
had  accepted  his  backing,  he  could  not  tell  her  of 
his  troubles,  and  hence,  instead  of  helping  him,  she 
continually  harassed  him  with  demands  for  money. 

His  friends,  the  millionaires  whom  he  met  in 
board  rooms  and  banquet  halls,  said  earnestly  that 
they  would  be  glad  to  help  him  if  they  could;  but 
the  public,  they  pointed  out,  was  still  cautious, 
thanks  to  the  demagogues  and  fomenters  of  class 
hatred;  and  meanwhile  it  seemed  to  Jerome  that 
the  millionaires  were  in  secret  trying  to  harm  him. 

He  grew  lean  as  the  winter  passed,  and  he  be- 
gan to  suffer  horribly  from  insomnia.  He  would 
go  to  bed  dead  tired,  and,  confident  of  sleeping 
well,  he  would  turn  off  the  light  and  settle  down 
242 


Barbara   Gwynne 

upon  his  pillow  with  a  sigh  of  content.  But  a 
breath  of  wind  would  rattle  the  pane.  A  little 
later  a  dog  would  bark.  Then  he  would  hear  the 
vile  cry  of  a  cat. 

And  growing  wider  and  wider  awake,  he  would 
lie  and  listen  intently  in  the  dark;  till  at  last  the 
faintest  sound,  the  faintest  creak,  would  cause  him 
to  jump  nearly  out  of  his  skin. 

He  would  then  abandon  all  hope  of  sleep,  and  a 
kind  of  delirium,  not  altogether  unpleasant,  would 
possess  him.  Thoughts  strangely  vivid,  thoughts  as 
vivid  as  dreams,  would  whirl  and  race  in  endless 
procession  through  his  feverish  mind.  He  would 
compose  long  and  brilliant  letters,  conduct  master- 
ful interviews,  his  difficulties  would  be  nearly  con- 
quered. But  a  drowsy  languor  would  steal  over 
him.  Perhaps  he  was  to  get  some  sleep  after  all: 
the  night  was  still  young.  And  opening  his  eyes, 
he  would  see  the  cold,  sad  light  of  the  dawn.  That 
unexpected  vision  would  rack  him  with  horror  and 
despair.  Too  late,  too  late  for  sleep,  and  with  a 
groan  he  would  ask  himself  where  on  earth  he  was 
to  find  the  strength  to  face  another  day. 

Jerome  was  in  a  bad  way.  His  nerves  of  steel 
had  at  last  yielded  to  the  strain  of  what  in  Wall 
Street  was  called  work.  But  his  were  steel  nerves, 
and,  if  the  strain  were  lightened,  they  would  spring 
back  elastically  into  place  again. 

243 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Jerome  was  in  a  bad  way.  And  yet — if  he  could 
weather  this  storm 

For  his  country's  growth  was  so  swift,  so  mon- 
strous, that  his  enterprises,  chosen,  after  all,  with 
acumen,  would,  if  left  alone,  soon  cease  to  stagger 
under  their  load  of  over-capitalization.  Pigmies 
to-day,  crushed  to  the  earth  beneath  their  cruel 
loads,  to-morrow  his  enterprises  would  be  such  vast 
giants  that  they  would  swing  easily  on  their  way 
with  those  same  loads  hidden  in  their  pockets. 

If  he  could  weather  this  storm! 


He  rose,  after  a  wretched  night,  to  a  day  of  ut- 
ter lassitude.  A  poisonous  fatigue  made  him  sick 
and  foul  within  and  without.  He  cut  his  lip  while 
shaving  with  his  new  safety  razor,  and  at  the 
office  he  found  a  telegram  from  Barbara's  man- 
ager— "  Please  send  eight  thousand."  He  drew 
the  money  from  certain  funds  that  he  had  no  right 
to  touch. 

Bill  Stroud  entered. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Jerome,  what  next  ?  " 

And  with  scornful  and  incredulous  laughter  Bill 
spread  before  him  an  afternoon  paper  that  con- 
tained the  first  article  about  his  tottering  fortunes. 

Bill's  faith  moved  him.     He  said: 
244 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Well,  Bill,  it's  pretty  nearly  true,  this 
yarn." 

Bill  started.     Then  he  gave  a  heavy  sigh. 

"  If  you  could  think  of  a  coup,  Mr.  Jerome." 

Ah,  that  was  it — if  he  could  think  of  a  coup. 
Coups  were  the  life  and  soul  of  such  plays  as  Bill 
and  he  and  all  New  York  frequented.  Strangely 
transparent  and  weak,  coups  yet  befooled  the  most 
astute,  they  subjugated  the  most  powerful.  If  he 
could  think  of  a  coup! 

"Bill,"  he  said,  "coups  don't  go  in  real  life." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  you'll  pull  through,  Mr.  Jerome. 
I  bank  on  that." 

"  Yes,  I'll  pull  through." 

And  he  rose  resolutely.  The  crisis  was  now 
come,  and  from  somewhere  in  his  splendid  constitu- 
tion reserves  of  strength  flowed  in  to  meet  the 
crisis. 

"  I  must  see  Gaines,"  he  said.  "  Look  up  the 
next  train   for  Chicago." 

For  a  week  he  fought.  For  a  week  he  stormed 
the  financial  strongholds  of  Denver,  Pittsburg, 
New  York  and  Philadelphia.  For  a  week,  laying 
bare  all  his  enterprises,  he  proved  to  millionaire 
after  millionaire  that  his  ruin  would  harm  and  his 
triumph  would  benefit  the  listener. 

He  had  found  a  coup,  after  all.  His  coup  was 
to  ignore  friendship,  loyalty,  every  decent  feeling, 

245 


Barbara  Gwynne 

and,  relying  solely  on  selfishness,  to  convince  his 
listener — by  any  means,  fair  or  foul,  to  convince 
him — that  their  interests  were  mutual,  that,  inevi- 
tably, they  must  sink  or  swim  together. 

There  were  strange  stories  of  that  week's  cam- 
paign. There  were  stories  of  threats,  blackmail, 
physical  violence,  even  tears.  But  these  stories,  for 
all  their  mocking  note,  had  in  them  a  note  of  pro- 
found respect.  For  the  end  of  the  stories  was 
triumphant. 

The  day  he  realised  his  triumph,  the  day  the 
great  Hodson's  telegram  of  assent  at  last  arrived, 
Jerome  realised  as  well  his  weariness,  and  he  rose 
and  stalked  forth  from  his  glass  retreat. 

"  Bill,  I'm  going  home." 

"You  look  kind  of  bad,  Mr.  Jerome.  You've 
been  overdoing  it.  Why  don't  you  take  a  couple 
of  days  off?" 

"  I  guess  maybe  I  will.  Bill,  now  that  I've  pulled 
through." 

His  glittering  French  limousine  bore  him  swiftly 
and  smoothly  to  his  beautiful  house.  He  would  lie 
down  awhile.  Seeking  his  bedroom,  he  took  off  his 
coat  and  waistcoat,  then  slipped  them  on  again. 
For  he  was  too  restless  to  lie  down.  He  entered 
the  library  and  began  to  pace  the  floor  with  quick 
steps. 

He  had  weathered  the  storm 
246 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  was  glad  he  had  weathered  the  storm.  Had 
he  gone  under,  a  number  of  irregularities  would 
have  been  revealed  .  .  .  not  thefts  ,  .  .  certainly 
not  intentional  thefts  ...  for  he  had  known,  when 
he  utilised  those  funds,  that  he  would  be  able  to 
return  them  .  .  .  and  to-morrow,  sure  enough,  he 
was  going  to  return  them.  But,  all  the  same,  had 
he  gone  under,  thousands  of  the  provident  poor 
would  have  lost  their  savings  through  him,  and  it 
would  have  been  to  all  intents  and  purposes  just 
as  though  he  had  entered  and  rifled  the  little  houses 
of  the  poor  at  dead  of  night. 

A  footman  brought  in  Robinson's  card.  He 
never  saw  journalists  at  his  residence,  but  Robin- 
son, one  of  the  editors  of  the  Item,  had  a  certain 
importance. 

"  Send  him  up,"  he  said. 

Robinson  entered.  His  air  was  sympathetic  and 
uneasy.  Of  course  he  did  not  know  that  Jerome 
had  pulled  through. 

"  Mr.  McWade,"  he  stammered,  "  we  are  going 
to  print  a — a  story  about  you  to-morrow.  I'd  like 
you  to  confirm  it  or  deny  it." 

"  Well,  what  is  your  story  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  pause.  To  Robinson,  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  it  occurred  that  Jerome's  figure 
was  herculean,  brutally,  disagreeably  herculean, 
Robinson  regarded  the  solid  neck  above  the  white 
247 


Barbara  Gwynne 

collar.  He  regarded  the  massive  arms  and  shoul- 
ders under  the  soft  cloth  of  the  black  coat.  At 
last,  clearing  his  throat,  he  said: 

"  Is  it  true,  Mr.  McWade,  that  you  have  swamped 
yourself  by  backing  a  beautiful  young  actress  with 
whom  you  are  infatuated  ?  " 

Jerome  turned  very  red.     He  rose. 

"  What  actress  do  you  mean  ?  " 

*'Miss  Barb " 

But  Robinson  stepped  back  hurriedly.  Jerome 
was  advancing.  His  blue  eyes  glittered  like  steel 
in  his  red  face.  And  he  seemed,  as  he  drew  near, 
to  stiffen  and  swell.  Bigger  and  bigger  he  became, 
a  colossus  that  towered  over  Robinson,  and  now 
this  colossus  put  out  its  hand. 

"  Don't  you  lay  your  hands  on  me ! " 

But  Jerome  clutched  Robinson  by  the  shoulder. 
An  incredible  grip.  Robinson  felt  himself  being 
shaken  to  and  fro  like  a  thing  of  paper. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Jerome,  shaking  Robinson 
with  one  hand  with  a  kind  of  calm  violence,  "  I 
don't  often  let  myself  go.  It's  dangerous.  But  I 
want  to  tell  you,  if  you  print  a  line  of  that  lie,  I'll 
take  you  by  the  throat,  like  this,  and  kill  you.  Yes, 
by  God,  I'll  kill  you.     Like  this.    I  mean  it." 

"  Don't !  "  gasped  Robinson. 

"  Do  you  promise  not  to  print  a  line  ?  " 

"Yes." 

248 


Barbara  Gwynne 


And  Robinson  departed  in  haste  and  silence, 
nervously  settling  his  disordered  tie. 

The  episode  left  Jerome  calmer.  He  did  not, 
truly,  often  let  himself  go.  He  thought  it  cow- 
ardly to  let  himself  go ;  he  thought  it  unfair.  Nev- 
ertheless it  was  now  and  then  very  pleasant,  yield- 
ing to  a  sudden  storm  of  rage,  to  carry  all  before 
him  by  brute  strength.  And  Jerome,  smiling  faintly 
over  the  memory  of  Robinson's  departure,  began 
to  read  the  last  annual  report  of  the  Hong  Kong 
mission.  The  eight  Hong  Kong  missionaries,  it 
appeared,  had  absconded  with  the  mission  plate.  .  ,.j 


A  bell  rang,  and,  behind  his  servant,  Barbara 
entered. 

"Barbara!" 

Running  to  him  silently,  she  took  both  his  hands 
in  hers.  Her  air,  as  she  looked  up  into  his  eyes, 
moved  him  in  the  strangest  way.  She  had  never 
looked  at  him  like  that  before,  with  that  radiant 
and  grave  approval,  that  queer  humility. 

"Jerome,  are  you  ill?  I  didn't  know  till  yes- 
terday you  were  in  trouble.  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?  And  here  I've  been  drawing  on  you,  draft 
after  draft!" 

"It's  all  right  now,"  he  said. 
249 


Barbara  Gwynne 

**  Oh,  have  you  pulled  through?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  stronger  than  ever  now." 

"I  am  so  glad." 

She  unfastened  her  long,  grey,  fur-lined  travel- 
ling coat. 

"  But  you  should  be  acting  in  Dubuque  to-night." 

"  Oh,  Fve  given  all  that  up." 

"  But  I  won't  let  you  give  it  up.  I'm  stronger 
than  ever  now." 

"  I  am  so  glad.  When  I  saw  the  Dispatch  yes- 
terday, I  disbanded  the  company,  I  took  the  night 
express.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  did  you 
let  me " 

"I  knew  all  along  I'd  pull  through." 

"  But  you  were  too  good.  It  wasn't  right, 
Jerome." 

"  Barbara,"  he  said,  turning  confusedly  to  the 
fire,  "  Barbara,  I  was  glad  to  do — I'd  do  anything 
for  you." 

"  I  know  you  would." 

She  regarded  him  compassionately  as  he  leaned, 
tall  and  herculean,  against  the  mantel.  His  eyes 
looked  tired,  his  face  was  thin.  But  he  had  a 
manly  air,  a  strong,  bold,  resolute  air,  a  soldier's  air. 

*'  I  know  you  would,  Jerome.  And  yet  .  .  . 
And  yet  .    .    ." 

She  smiled  a  strange  smile.    She  mused.    Then, 
blushing  a  little,  she  faltered  softly: 
250 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  I  have  been  reading  one  of  your  old  letters. 
Jerome,  when  I  ran  away  from  Cinnaminson,  from 
the  Cinnaminson  gossips,  and  you  wrote  me  that 
humble,  that  generous  proposal  .  .  .  you  thought 
.    .   .  you  thought  I  was  bad,  didn't  you  ?  " 

He  frowned.  He  desired  to  lie.  But  he  had 
never  lied  to  her. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"I  knew  it!" 

And  she  rose,  she  gave  him  both  her  hands 
again. 

"  I  knew  it !  I  knew  it !  "  she  repeated,  with  soft 
laughter. 

"  You  see,"  he  stammered,  "  I  was  sure  that, 
whatever  you  did,  there  would  be  some  justifica- 
tion for  .  .  .  You  are,  I  mean,  so  honourable,  you 
couldn't  degrade  .    .    .  soil  .    .    .'' 

"  Thank  you,  Jerome." 

She  returned  to  her  chair.  The  grey  fur  lapels 
of  her  coat  were  thrown  back,  and  he  could  see 
her  slim  bosom  rising  and  falling.  She  still  re- 
garded him  with  that  queer  humility,  that  approval 
radiant  and  grave. 

"  You  have  paid  me,"  she  said,  "  a  great  com- 
pliment, the  greatest  compliment,  perhaps,  the 
highest  ..." 

"I  don't  see  how." 

She    let    her   gaze    rove    over    the    silver   grey 

251 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Velasquez,  over  the  first  editions  in  their  morocco 
boxes. 

''  That  doesn't  lessen  my  compliment,"  she  said. 
"  But  how  tired  you  look !  Why  don't  you  go 
abroad  a  while?" 

"  I  might,  if  you  were  going." 

She  mused,  her  eyes  downcast.  Then,  with  a 
faint  flush,  a  faint  smile,  she  answered: 

"  I'll  go  abroad  with  you,  if  you  want  me  to, 
Jerome." 


252 


XXV 

Etchepherdia,  a  Basque  house,  stood  on  a  high 
and  narrow  cape,  breasting  the  sea  Hke  a  ship.  Be- 
fore it  the  windy  plain  of  tumbling  waters  spread 
in  clear  greens  and  blues  to  the  horizon.  Past  it 
on  both  sides  great  rollers  swept  eternally  shore- 
ward. The  air  upon  its  terraces  was  sweet  and  keen 
and  salt. 

Barbara,  the  evening  of  her  entry,  dined  on 
Etchepherdia*s  topmost  terrace  behind  a  glass  wind- 
screen. The  sun  was  setting  as  she  took  her  place, 
the  wild  sea  was  flushed  here  and  gilded  there  with 
sunset  light,  the  mountains  of  Spain  were  pink  and 
clear  like  vast  coals  of  fire. 

As  she  dined  slowly,  she  now  and  then  looked 
up  from  her  book.  Before  her  rolled  a  sea  of  rose 
and  gold.  To  her  right  the  beaches  of  France,  with 
their  white  dunes  and  their  green  pine-woods,  were 
bathed  in  an  orange  glitter.  To  her  left  the  rocky 
coast  of  Spain  was  all  pink,  translucent,  flaming. 

The  twilight  turned  blue.     Two  or  three  stars 

253: 


Barbara  Gwynne 

came  out.    The  butler  brought  lighted  candles.    An 
enormous  moon  rose  slowly. 

After  dinner  she  paced  the  great  terrace  in  the 
moonlight.  The  sound  of  the  sea  was  like  a  deep 
harp  note.  The  air  was  sweet  and  wild,  as  though 
she  stood  at  the  bow  of  a  ship. 

But  in  the  sound  of  the  sea  there  was  some- 
thing mournful,  there  was  something  mournful  in 
the  cold  moonlight;  and  shivering  a  little,  a  little 
lonely,  she  went  indoors.  The  spacious  reception 
rooms  all  opened  one  upon  the  other,  and  she 
strolled  down  long  bright  vistas,  admiring  the  pic- 
tures and  the  tapestries.  Then  she  went  upstairs 
to  her  own  suite,  a  suite  as  delicate  and  pale  as  the 
inside  of  a  shell,  and  she  visited  her  bath-room  of 
green  marble,  she  visited  her  bedroom  with  its  gilt 
bed  panelled  in  wicker,  she  visited  her  dressing- 
room,  where  a  fire  of  odorous  cedar  flamed,  an  arm- 
chair drawn  before  it,  with  a  table  and  a  reading- 
lamp. 

She  read  till  ten  before  the  fire.  Then  she  went 
out  and  leaned  over  the  dressing-room  balcony. 
The  sea  in  the  moonlight  was  like  frosted  silver. 

"  I'll  get  up  at  sunrise  to-morrow,"  she  mused. 
"  I'll  spend  the  whole  day  in  the  open  air." 

She  slept  well,  and  the  next  morning  a  little  after 
six  Marcelle  brought  in  her  breakfast.  The  golden 
light  of  the  dawn  flooded  the  room,  and  her  great 

254 


Barbara  Gwynne 

window  framed  a  wild  sea  whose  foam  was  turned 
to  gold. 

Delicious  on  its  tray  was  her  breakfast  of  rich 
coffee,  fresh  butter  and  crisp  rolls.  Past  her 
window,  as  she  ate,  rocked  tiny  fishing-boats.  The 
Biarritz  fishermen,  early  as  it  was,  were  up  before 
her — tiny  figures  in  the  vast  splendour  of  the  sun- 
rise pulling  lustily  at  tiny  oars. 

She  ran  to  her  perfumed  bath,  and  after  her  bath 
she  dressed  in  a  walking-suit  of  rough  tweed,  with 
brown  boots,  a  trim  cloth  walking-hat,  and  brown 
gloves.  Then,  a  book  in  her  hand,  she  crossed  the 
garden  and  descended,  by  a  stairway  cut  in  the 
rock,  to  the  pale  beach. 

It  was  still  hardly  seven.  The  sweet  air  was 
cold.  But  there  was  warmth  already  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  she  set  out  slowly  over  the  soft,  coarse 
sand  beside  the  thundering  sea. 

The  sea  frightened  her.  Never  had  she  dreamed 
of  such  a  sea.  The  rollers,  as  they  curved  over 
to  break,  were  three  and  four  times  the  height  of 
a  man.  The  beach  was  like  a  mountainside  for 
steepness,  yet  vast  sheets  of  foam  swept  continu- 
ally up  its  sharp  incline  with  a  strength  and  speed 
that  were  horrible.  It  seemed  to  Barbara  that  if 
one  of  those  hissing  sheets  of  foam  but  curled 
about  her  ankle,  it  would  surely  drag  her  down 
with  it  to  death. 

«55 


Barbara  Gwynne 

On  and  on  she  walked,  a  solitary  figure  in  an 
immense  and  sunlit  landscape  shaken  by  the  thun- 
der of  the  surf.  Now  she  climbed  great  dunes 
as  white  as  salt.  Now  she  threaded  little  clean 
groves  of  pines  that  emitted  an  odour  delicate  and 
stimulating.  Here  a  small,  sturdy  vineyard,  yield- 
ing the  good  vin  de  sable,  faced  the  sea.  Here 
fragrant  carnations  thrust  themselves  out  of  the 
sand.    The  gulls  were  her  only  company. 

After  luncheon,  still  unwearied,  she  set  out 
again.  But  this  time  she  walked  inland,  following 
hard  white  roads  that  wound  through  woods  and 
fields.  Now  and  then  she  met  an  ox-cart.  The 
huge,  cream-coloured  oxen,  swinging  their  Oriental 
trappings  of  blue  and  yellow  and  red,  obeyed  as 
intelligently  as  dogs  the  cries  of  the  driver  who 
stalked  before  them,  carrying  a  great  goad  upright 
like  a  spear.  Little  brown  birds  darted  to  and  fro 
in  the  blue  sky,  but  if  they  once  alighted  in  the 
fields,  men,  stretched  on  their  stomachs  behind 
barriers  of  reeds,  caught  them  in  great  nets 
cleverly. 

She  walked  home  in  the  twilight,  amid  a  sweet, 
thin,  melancholy  music,  the  Basque  songs  of  the 
returning  mountaineers.  She  was  tired,  but  at  the 
same  time  she  was  incredibly  stimulated  by  the 
pure  air  she  had  breathed  all  day.  And  as  she 
dined  alone,  as  she  sat  before  the  fire  after  dinner 

256 


Barbara  Gwynne 

with  a  book,  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  body  had 
never  felt  so  light  and  strong,  her  brain  had  never 
felt  so  powerful  and  clear.  Laying  her  book  upon 
her  knee,  she  gazed  into  the  flame.  Never  had  she 
realised  like  this  the  joy  of  life.  And  so  much  of 
life  still  lay  before  her,  there  were  so  many  sensa- 
tions still  to  taste.  .  .  She  rose  and  went  slowly 
to  the  huge  mirror.  She  gazed  at  her  reflection 
a  long  while.  Yes,  men's  eyes  told  her  the  truth. 
She  was  as  beautiful  as  ever,  she  was  perhaps  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  .   .  But  lonely.  .  . 


Fascinated  by  Etchepherdia,  she  had  leased  the 
house  for  a  year.  Here,  their  tour  ended,  Jerome 
had  left  her.  Here  she  would  rest,  after  the  dis- 
appointment of  "  Hilda  Muller,"  until  her  desire 
for  the  stage  revived  again. 

She  would  never  go  back  to  the  stage  save  in 
plays  of  "  Hilda  Muller's  "  quality,  plays  beautiful 
and  sincere.  Ford's  death  had  impressed  indelibly 
upon  her  his  own  conception  of  the  hideousness  of 
life,  but  with  Ford  she  believed  that  life's  hideous- 
ness could  be  mitigated.  By  living  honestly  and 
fearlessly,  by  being  true  to  one's  own  soul  alone, 
life  could  be  made  almost  happy.  She,  playing 
"  Hilda  Muller  "  to  nearly  empty  houses,  had  been, 

257 


Barbara  Gwynne 


thanks  to  certain  intelligent  applause,  almost  happy. 

But  the  stage's  greatest  triumphs  did  not,  after 
all,  promise  her  enough  distraction  from  the  hide- 
ousness  of  life;  and  laying  down  her  book,  she 
dreamed  in  the  nocturnal  silence  of  the  marriage 
whereof  she  had  been  robbed. 

She  dreamed  of  a  spacious  and  beautiful  house 
upon  a  hilltop,  a  house  full  of  joyous  interests, 
with  the  fresh,  frail  voices  of  little  children  sound- 
ing through  sunlit  halls. 

And  overcome  with  loneliness  and  sorrow  amid 
those  great,  silent,  illuminated  rooms,  she  took  up 
her  book  again  hurriedly,  resolved  not  to  cry. 


Winter  came  on,  winter  with  its  wild,  warm 
storms.  For  days  on  end  warm  winds  howled 
incessantly.  And  the  sea's  fury  passed  all 
credence. 

Barbara,  reading  by  the  fire,  would  look  from 
her  window  at  a  sea  turned  altogether  to  white 
foam,  a  sea  of  white  foam,  eternally  flinging  gi- 
gantic white  masses  up  into  a  low  black  sky. 

Great  flakes  of  foam  rose  like  white  birds  on  the 
wind  and  flew  miles  inland.  The  warm,  wet,  grey, 
tempestuous  days  were  full  of  those  white  foam 
birds.     And  through  the  foam  that  lay  in  mounds 

258 


Barbara  Gwynne 

upon  the  beach  children  ran  with  wild  laughter, 
disappearing  altogether  in  its  depths. 

Once,  as  Barbara  trudged  in  her  rubber  coat  to- 
wards the  Bar,  the  warm  wind  turned  cold,  the  rain 
turned  to  hail,  and  struggling  onward  amid  a  rat- 
tle of  hail-stones  as  big  as  marbles,  she  passed  gull 
after  gull  stretched,  dead  or  dying,  on  the  sand. 
She  counted  a  hundred  or  more:  grey,  bedraggled 
heaps  of  plumes  on  which  the  hail  beat  fiercely.  As 
she  bent  over  them,  shocked  and  sorrowful,  some 
moved  their  wings  in  a  feeble  eflFort  to  escape. 
Poor  things!  What  had  killed  them?  The  wild 
weather  ? 

A  warm,  wet,  grey,  tempestuous  winter,  fatten- 
ing the  green  land,  preparing  it  for  a  divine 
spring. 


The  spring  came  early.  In  the  gayest  sunshine, 
the  mildest,  sweetest  air,  the  plane-trees  put  forth 
a  few  pale  green  leaves.  The  leaves  increased. 
Soon  they  resembled  a  flight  of  green  butterflies 
hanging   amid   brown  boughs. 

Then  the  pear-trees'  gnarled  and  naked  limbs 
burst  into  soft  masses  of  snowy  blossom,  and 
under  a  sky  ineffably  blue  and  smiling  the  apple- 
trees  and  peach-trees  swayed  great  pink  and  white 
bouquets. 

259 


Barbara  Gwynne 


From  the  blackberry  hedges  that  bordered  all  the 
roads  sprang  pale  and  tiny  flowers,  changing  the 
hedges  to  white  mists.  Each  white  road  now  ran 
between  two  white  mists  of  delicate  bloom. 

Over  the  green  fields  spread  splendid  broideries 
of  wild  flowers — yellow  primroses  and  buttercups, 
purple  ragged  robin  and  thyme,  white  daisies. 

And  in  that  great  sunshine,  in  the  smile  of  that 
pure,  blue,  transparent  sky,  amid  white  fruit-trees, 
banks  of  violets,  fields  glittering  with  wild  flowers, 
every  hen  walked  amongst  a  brood  of  yellow  chicks. 
Every  duck  swam  amongst  yellow  ducklings.  Mares 
browsed  in  the  vales  with  long-legged  colts  at  their 
sides.  Cows  guarded  calves  in  every  meadow. 
Tiny  white  lambs,  bleating  excitedly,  scurried  to 
and  fro  among  the  sheep. 

One  long  spring  day  Barbara  walked  far  back 
into  the  mountains.  The  air  was  like  wine.  She 
lunched  on  a  mossy  bank  spangled  with  anemones 
and  violets.  Far  below  the  blue  sea  flashed  and 
glittered. 

After  lunch  she  rested  on  a  stone  wall  near  a 
little  white  farmhouse.  A  hen,  in  the  shadow  of  a 
plane-tree,  was  teaching  her  chicks  to  peck.  On  the 
hillside  a  half-dozen  young  lambs  leapt  and  bounded 
amongst  the  flock.  An  old  woman  hurried  excit- 
edly down  the  road  with  a  basket  of  ducklings  that 
had  just  been  hatched. 

260 


Barbara  Gwynne 

From  the  little  white  farmhouse  came  a  young 
mother  with  a  babe  in  her  arms.  The  young  mother 
was  beautiful,  a  girl  straight  and  robust.  She 
seated  herself  on  a  bench  under  a  tree,  and  from 
her  seat  she  regarded  Barbara  steadily. 

Her  proud  and  contented  eyes  fixed  on  Bar- 
bara, she  pressed  her  baby's  cheek  against  her  own, 
she  kissed  her  baby's  arms  and  neck,  and  all  the 
while  her  clear  gaze  said  to  Barbara: 

"  There  are  many  triumphs,  triumphs  of  luxury, 
triumphs  of  fame,  triumphs  of  love ;  but  this  is  the 
only  real  triumph.  Nothing  counts  beside  this. 
Wealth  and  fame  are  nothing,  and  the  kisses  of  a 
lover  are  but  the  prelude  to  these  kisses." 

The  ascending  road  left  the  farmlands  far  be- 
hind, and  Barbara  now  walked  amid  hills  all  yel- 
low with  gorse.  The  air,  flowing  over  miles  of 
fragrant  gorse,  had  a  faint  scent  of  vanilla. 

She  entered  an  old  Basque  town.  The  tall,  thin, 
dark  Basques  talked  to  one  another  in  a  guttural 
and  sing-song  language  which  resembled  Chinese. 
Their  ancient  pelote  court  was  built  of  granite,  and 
about  its  rectangle  ran  two  rows  of  granite  seats, 
with  patches  of  moss  growing  here  and  there  on 
the  old  grey  stone. 

She  returned  amid  the  sweet  and  wistful  music 
of  Basque  songs.  On  one  side  the  sun  was  setting 
in  the  sea,  and  on  the  other  side  a  moon  larger 
261 


Barbara  Gwynne 

than  the  sun  was  rising  behind  an  old  spire.  It  was 
very  beautiful,  but  she  was  lonely. 

The  pink  and  green  and  gold  faded  to  the  deep 
blue  of  twilight,  and  in  the  twilight  a  nightingale 
began  to  sing. 

After  dinner  she  could  hardly  read  for  the  night- 
ingale's singing.  A  pair  of  nightingales  had  built 
their  nest  in  a  sheltered  corner  of  the  garden.  The 
music  flooded  the  room — ^joyous  music.  She  had 
never  heard  music  so  full  of  joy. 

She  turned  off  her  reading-lamp.  She  drew  her 
chair  to  the  window.  She  gazed  out  at  the  garden, 
at  the  trees  and  flowers  dreaming  in  the  moon- 
light. 

The  nightingale  sang  on.  What  happiness  in  its 
song!    A  happiness  that  made  her  want  to  weep. 

She  thought  of  the  young  mother  under  the  plane- 
tree  caressing  her  baby.  She  remembered  the 
mother's  eyes  as  she  kissed  the  baby's  neck,  as  she 
tossed  the  smiling  little  creature  up  and  down,  as 
she  kissed  its  pink,   round  arms. 

On  and  on  sang  the  nightingale.  In  the  fra- 
grance of  the  moonlit  garden  its  heart  seemed 
bursting  with  joy. 

And  Barbara  dreamed  in  the  moonlight,  to  the 
music  of  the  nightingale,  of  babies'  little  faces  al- 
ways turned  to  their  mothers,  of  babies'  eyes  always 
following  their  mothers,  of  babies'  tiny  outstretched 
262 


Barbara  Gwynne 

arms,  their  helpless  and  appealing  little  hands  .  .  . 

On  and  on  she  dreamed.  .  .  Little  clutching 
hands,  little  bodies  soft  and  warm,  smiling  faces, 
following  eyes  .   .   . 

The  nightingale  sang  more  loudly.  The  garden 
dreamed  in  the  moonlight.  And  Barbara  dreamed. 
Her  dreams  had  all  the  passion  and  sweetness  and 
despair  of  a  young  lover's. 

Little,  helpless,  clutching  hands  .  .  .  smiling 
faces  .  .   .  following  eyes  .  .  . 


263 


XXVI 

Jerome,  on  the  completion  of  the  Lawless  merger, 
had  built  his  fourth  house.  Here,  in  regal  mag- 
nificence, he  lived  alone — alone  with  twenty-six 
servants. 

He  no  longer  liked  to  be  called  a  business  man, 
having  outgrown  that  title,  as  he  had  outgrown  his 
three  other  houses.  He  now  liked  to  be  called  a 
financier. 

His  energy,  as  a  financier,  was  even  greater  than 
it  had  been  as  a  simple  business  man.  His  intense 
and  devouring  energy  interfered  with  his  health. 
Hence  he  had  to  curb  it  somewhat. 

There  was  something  frightening  about  his  en- 
ergy. He  would  fall  upon  a  piece  of  work  as  if 
that  piece  of  work  were  his  life's  sole  object,  as 
if,  unless  he  succeeded  in  it,  he  must  die. 

And  he  would  toil  night  and  day,  week  in  and 
week  out.  And  besides  giving  himself  wholly,  he 
would  compel  a  host  of  other  men  as  well  to  give 
264 


Barbara  Gwynne 

themselves  wholly,  setting  everybody  impossible 
tasks.  Thus  Brown  must  increase  freight  rates 
and  freight  carriage.  Jones  must  lower  the  con- 
sumption of  fuel  and  the  time  of  trains.  Robin- 
son must  cause  the  number  of  employees  and  acci- 
dents alike  to  decline. 

He  would  be  told  that  his  requirements  were  im- 
possible, but  of  impossibility  he  would  never  hear. 
What  he  desired  must,  must  be  achieved.  And  he 
would  argue,  storm,  quote  precedents,  suggest  ways 
and  means,  blazing  with  energy  as  with  a  flame. 
And  the  men,  leaving  his  presence  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  they  must  either  satisfy  him  or  resign 
disgraced,  would,  to  save  their  skins,  work  as  they 
had  never  worked,  strive  as  they  had  never  striven, 
till  at  last,  to  their  own  astonishment,  they  would 
succeed.    The  impossible  would  be  accomplished. 

Then  Jerome,  having  conquered,  having  con- 
quered after  months  of  toil,  months  of  anxiety, 
months  of  disappointment,  contention  and  despair, 
Jerome  would  heave  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  he  would 
lean  back  in  his  desk-chair  and  smile,  but  instead 
of  saying,  "  Now,  at  last,  a  rest,"  he  would  say, 

"  Now,  at  last,  I  can  get  at "     And  the  next 

hour  would  see  him  enrapt  heart  and  soul  in  a  more 
desperate  struggle  than  the  one  just  ended. 

But  his  energy,  as  he  grew  older,  spoiled  his 
sleep.    Sometimes,  after  a  day  unusually  tense  and 

265 


Barbara  Gwynne 

exciting,  he  would  toss  till  dawn.  To  curb  his 
energy  he  turned,  therefore,  under  Pat  O'Rourke, 
to  exercise. 

Under  O'Rourke  he  built  a  gymnasium  on  the 
top  floor  of  his  house,  with  an  elaborate  set  of 
needle  and  shower  baths  and  a  great  marble  pool. 
Here,  every  morning,  he  boxed,  wrestled  and 
played  hand-ball,  concluding  with  a  plunge  in  the 
pool's  clear  depths. 

But  O'Rourke  preferred  open-air  exercise,  and 
for  every  hour  spent  in  the  gymnasium  Jerome  spent 
two  on  horseback,  on  the  links,  or,  in  sweater  and 
rubber-soled  shoes,  on  long  jogs  over  country  roads. 
Thus  his  weight  decreased.  He  became  lean  and 
hard  and  supple.  Sun  and  wind  changed  his  pallor 
to  a  ruddy  brown. 

He  became,  too,  really  elegant,  thanks  in  part 
to  his  "  house  secretary,"  Lord  Seymour's  son. 
Jerome  had  always  sought  after  elegance,  but  his 
standard  had  been  wrong.  Now,  a  correct  standard 
having  at  last  been  achieved,  his  elegance  left  noth- 
ing to  be  desired. 

Every  morning  at  eight  he  took  in  bed  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  a  slice  of  toast.  Then,  having  exercised 
and  swum,  he  descended  to  his  dressing-room, 
where  Seymour  awaited  him  with  the  house  mail. 
While  he  ran  over  the  house  mail,  declining  this 
invitation  and  accepting  that,  his  valet  now  shaved 
266 


Barbara  Gwynne 

him,  now  buttoned  his  crisp  and  delicate  shirt,  now 
drew  the  forms  from  his  shining  boots,  now  handed 
him  his  fresh,  rich  tie. 

He  read  the  papers  and  finished  his  private  cor- 
respondence at  breakfast.  After  breakfast  the  hall 
porter  brought  him  carefully  his  well-ironed  hat 
and  lustrous  overcoat,  handed  him  stick  and  gloves, 
and,  with  profound  reverence,  ushered  him  forth 
into  Fifth  Avenue.  There,  instantly,  he  was  saluted 
by  the  trim  chauffeur  at  the  wheel  and  by  the  trim 
footman  at  the  door  of  his  limousine.  He  entered 
the  limousine,  where  another  secretary  with  more 
mail  awaited  him,  and  all  the  way  to  Wall  Street 
he  read  and  answered  letters. 

In  Wall  Street  every  minute  was  occupied,  every 
minute  scheduled.  At  one  he  lunched  with  this 
partner  or  that.  At  two,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
he  saw  reporters.  At  four  he  departed,  giving  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon  to  board  meetings  or  to 
charity  conventions.  The  evening  was  devoted  to 
society. 

For  Jerome  was  in  society.  Mrs.  Stu^vesant  had 
taken  him  up.  Mrs.  Stuyvesant,  the  week  after  he 
helped  her  husband  out  of  the  copper  muddle,  gave 
in  his  honour  one  of  her  splendid  dinners.  Inas- 
much as  he  had  learned  from  Charles  Seymour  the 
ways  of  those  smart  London  houses  upon  which 
Mrs.  Stuyvesant  and  her  friends  modelled  them- 
267 


Barbara  Gwynne 

selves  reverently,  his  success  at  this  dinner  was 
satisfactory. 

He  was  a  good  "  catch,"  invitations  showered  on 
him,  and  he,  from  his  beautiful  house,  showered 
invitations.  His  hospitality  was  extravagant.  He 
set  a  new  standard  in  plats  and  vintages.  And  in 
his  superb  dining-hall,  while  two  hundred  men  and 
women  ate  and  drank  noisily  at  small  tables  under 
tents  of  roses,  a  star  from  the  Opera  sang  sweet, 
unheeded  music,  a  famous  violinist  played  Bee- 
thoven amid  loud  laughter,  a  beautiful  dancer 
danced  to  rows  of  backs. 


268 


XXVII 

From  her  terrace,  one  radiant  September  morning, 
she  saw  his  yacht  on  the  blue  horizon — a  white 
speck  under  a  plume  of  smoke.  Bigger  and  bigger 
it  grew.  How  white  it  was !  Its  brass  cowls  shone 
like  gold  in  the  sun. 

The  yacht  loitered  a  while  before  the  Bar,  then 
glided  into  the  narrow  mouth  of  the  Adour.  In 
its  progress  Bayonneward  it  seemed  to  slide  inland 
across  the  sands  magically.  It  disappeared,  at  last, 
among  the  pines. 

At  noon,  in  trim  blue.  Bill  Stroud  arrived.  Mr. 
Jerome  had  gone  on  to  the  Hotel  du  Palais  with 
his  secretaries,  and  he  would  like  to  come  to 
Etchepherdia,  Bill  said,  for  tea. 

After  luncheon  she  drove  to  Bayonne.  On  the 
way  the  postman  handed  her  another  letter  from 
Abercrombie.  Again  Abercrombie  begged  her  to 
return,  offering  better  terms  than  ever;  but  Bar- 
bara read  his  offer  with  a  frown. 
269 


Barbara  Gwynne 

She  passed  the  yacht  in  the  Bayonne  harbour. 
How  big  it  was!  A  half-dozen  motor-cars  stood 
before  the  gangway,  and  neat,  blue-clad  officers 
were  leading  grandes  dames  from  Biarritz  about 
the  deck. 

''Le  millia/rdaire  Americain!''  she  heard  on  all 
sides.    And,  as  her  carriage  passed,  she  thought : 

*'  How  odd !    I'm  proud  of  knowing  Jerome." 

He  arrived  at  Etchepherdia  at  four  in  a  white 
touring-car,  followed  by  a  smaller  car  wherein  sat 
three  enormous  and  smooth-shaven  men  in  black. 

She  welcomed  him  on  the  terrace.  He  advanced, 
laughing  gaily,  handsome  in  the  sunshine.  His 
thick,  well-brushed  hair  was  stirred  a  little  by  the 
wind,  and  in  the  golden  brown  of  his  tanned  face 
his  blue  eyes  beamed,  his  white  teeth  glittered. 

"  Barbara !  "  he  said.  The  strong  brown  hand, 
as  it  clasped  hers,  trembled. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  gently.  "  It's  quite  an 
honour  to  know  you  now,  Jerome.  But  who  are 
your  three  friends  ?  " 

The  men  in  black  had  left  their  car,  and  one 
strode  up  and  down  before  Etchepherdia,  another 
stood  at  the  gate,  the  third  circled  the  court  with 
slow  steps. 

"  They  are  guards,"  he  said  apologetically.  "  I 
have  to  have  them — the  newspapers  print  so  many 
lies  about  me." 

270 


Barbara  Gwynne 

As  they  conversed,  they  paced  the  terrace.  The 
sun  shone.  An  air  wild  and  sweet  blew  from  the 
sea.  Past  them  great  green  rollers  swept  shore- 
ward. 

"Have  you  been  to  Cinnaminson  lately, 
Jerome  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was  there  last  month." 

"  Are  there  any  changes  in  Cinnaminson  ?  " 

"  Bishop  Harper  has  built  a  little  country  house 
on  the  Ridge." 

"  Is  he  a  bishop  now?    How  did  he  manage  it?  " 

"  He  managed  it  with  a  campaign  against  the 
social  evil.  He  and  three  young  men  did  Tenth 
Street  night  after  night  all  winter.  Sixty  raids 
followed*  Bishop  Harper's  evidence  was — But 
didn't  you  read  it?" 

"No,  thank  God!" 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  approve  of  Bishop  Har- 
per's campaign  against  the  social  evil,"  said  Jerome 
hurriedly.  "  You  always  take  the  under  dog's  side, 
Barbara." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it  was  vile !  To  climb  by 
means  of  those  poor  girls ! " 

A  maid  came  forth  with  tea,  and  they  seated 
themselves  in  the  shelter  of  the  glass  wind-screen. 

"You  still  take  tea,  Jerome?" 

"  Yes,"  he  said.     "  Tea  is  a  good  stimulant.     I 
can  work  like  a  lion  after  four  cups  of  tea." 
271 


Barbara  Gwynne 

He  laughed,  radiant  with  happiness.  He  was 
very  well  dressed.  His  grey  flannels  were  perfect. 
Perfect,  too,  his  white  shoes,  his  crisp  shirt,  his 
careless  tie.  Whence,  though,  came  his  aristocratic 
air?  Was  it  that  an  aristocratic  air  was  but  an 
air  of  power,  and  Jerome's  power  exceeded  many 
a  king's? 

He  took  a  tiny  foie  gras  sandwich. 

"  Mrs.  Chew,"  he  said,  "  has  married  a  young 
railway  brakeman." 

"Oh,  poor  Elisha!" 

"  Poor  Elisha  came  all  the  way  from  Palm 
Beach  to  stop  the  match.  He  and  the  brakeman 
had  it  out  in  the  Chew  dining-room.  They  smashed 
a  lot  of  crockery,  and  Elisha  lost  a  front  tooth." 

"  Poor  Elisha !  "  She  laughed  gently.  "  He  was 
so  pompous,  it  is  hard  to  imagine  him  in  a  vulgar 
fight." 

After  their  tea  they  lounged,  facing  one  another, 
in  great  chairs  of  wicker. 

"Jerome,  Bill  tells  me  you  actually  think  of 
building  again." 

"  Well,  why  not  ?  "  He  glanced  at  her,  and  his 
face  fell.     "  I  don't  know,  though,"  he  muttered. 

In  the  silence,  conscious  of  his  gaze,  she  moved 

uneasily.     Then  her  pale  lids  lifted.     Her  violet 

eyes,  more  liquid  and  more  luminous  than  he  had 

ever  seen  them,  met  his.     And  for  a  moment  she 

272 


Barbara  Gwynne 

allowed  him  to  gaze  deep  down  into  the  clear  depths 
of  her  beautiful  eyes.  .  .  Those  clear  and  soft  and 
shining  depths.  .  .  He  bent  forward.  Through 
her  transparent  sleeves  he  saw  the  round  and  sup- 
ple contours  of  her  arms.  And  how  beautiful  were 
her  hands!  The  long  fingers  were  clasped  about 
her  Lnee.  He  bent  nearer,  he  became  conscious 
of  a  faint,  exquisite  perfume,  but,  with  a  sudden 
start,  Barbara  rose,  and  laughing  breathlessly,  with 
heightened  colour,  she  walked  to  the  balustrade  of 
carved  stone. 

"  Perhaps  .  .  .  '*  she  was  thinking,  as,  her  elbows 
on  the  rail,  she  gazed  forth  over  the  blue  and  green 
expanse  of  sea.    "  I  could,  perhaps  ..." 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  my  building  another 
house?"  the  gloomy  and  disappointed  voice 
sounded  behind  her.  "  The  house  I  live  in  now  is 
too  big  for  my  loneliness." 

She  turned,  a  little  astonished. 

"Are  you  ever  lonely,  Jerome?" 

"  Am  I  ever  lonely !  " 

"But  not  often?" 

"  I  fight  it,"  he  said.  "  I  get  to  work.  All  the 
same,  it  isn't  very  pleasant  to  look  forward  to  a 
lonely  old  age.  An  old  man,  all  alone,  in  a  big 
house." 

As  they  paced  the  enormous  terrace  Barbara 
saidr 

273 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"What  are  you  doing  over  here  with  so  many 
secretaries,  Jerome?" 

"  I'm  forming  a  new  combine.     If  I  succeed  it 

will  be  the  biggest  thing  Fve  done  yet.    If  I  fail 

But  I  can't  fail." 

She  faced  him,  leaning  on  the  balustrade. 

"What  is  the  good  of  all  your  money?" 

"  I  give  a  lot  to  charity." 

"To  charity?" 

"  Foreign  missions,  for  example." 

She  laughed. 

"Well,  what  charities  are  better?" 

"  There's  medical  research,"  she  mused. 

"  Write  me,"  he  said  eagerly,  "  a  list  of  the  chari- 
ties you  recommend." 

Leaning  against  the  balustrade,  her  back  to  the 
sea,  she  regarded  him  in  silence.  .  .  And  again 
her  violet  eyes  seemed  to  grow  more  liquid  and 
more  luminous.  She  allowed  him  again  to 
gaze  deep  down  into  their  soft,  clear  depths. 
Jerome,  bathed  in  delicious  violet  light,  whispered 
sadly : 

"If  you  would  marry  me  .   .   ." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "  Would  you  have  me 
marry  you  without  loving  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  for  I  couldn't  love  you  any  better  if  you 
did  love  me." 

"Poor  Jerome!" 

274 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"  This  money  of  mine  .  .  .  Thinlc  what  you  could 
do  with  it.     Think  of  the  good." 

"Would  you  have  me  marry  you  for  your 
money  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  shook  her  head.  But  her  smile  was  tender. 
Her  soft  eyes  lingered  in  his. 

"Yes;  yes,"  he  repeated  desperately. 

But  she  still  shook  her  head. 


275 


XXVIII 

"Yesterday  I  flew,"  said  Barbara,  "and  to-day 
I'm  going  to  see  a  bull  fight." 

The  limousine  hurried.  In  her  elegant  and 
bizarre  toilet,  a  toilet  suggestive  somehow  of  the 
Orient,  she  crossed  and  uncrossed  her  knees.  Her 
face  was  pale  under  the  Eastern  turban,  and  she 
kept  biting  her  red  lip  nervously. 

"You  are  more  nervous,"  said  he,  "than  when 
you  flew.  Why,  you  are  more  nervous  than  on  the 
first  night  of  '  Vassa.'  " 

"  *  Vassa ! '  "  she  cried,  remembering  Abercrom- 
bie's  letter ;  and  she  continued,  "  Mr.  Abercrombie 
wants  me  to  come  back  to  him,  Jerome.  He  oflfers 
twice  the  old  salary,  and  I  may  play  anything  I 
like  at  matinees." 

All  the  gaiety  vanished  from  his  voice.  "  Do  you 
think  you'll  go?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  Grand  Duke  Paul  takes 
276 


Barbara  Gwynne 

over  Etchepherdia  next  month.  I  must  do  some- 
thing." 

The  car  stopped,  and,  surrounded  by  Jerome's 
tall  guards,  they  ascended  through  crowds  of  well- 
dressed  persons  to  their  box. 

Their  lofty  box  commanded  the  whole  thronged 
amphitheatre. 

The  ring,  empty  as  yet,  was  gilded  with  floods  of 
sunshine,  and  up  from  the  ring  rose  in  widening 
circles  an  immense  multitude.  Like  a  great  garden 
the  multitude  moved  and  rustled,  revealing  here  a 
snowy  plume,  there  a  bright  gown,  here  a  beautiful 
face.    And  over  all  spread  the  blue  sky. 

Barbara  looked  down  at  the  bull  ring,  then  she 
looked  up  at  the  sky;  and  the  pure  and  serene  and 
tender  sky  seemed  to  bend  over  the  earth  with  a 
smile,  seemed  to  oflfer  mankind  the  revelation  of 
some  profound  and  precious  secret. 

Music  struck  up,  and  round  the  ring  a  gay  little 
procession  of  young  men  clad  in  silk  and  velvet 
followed  a  gay  little  band. 

But  the  procession  ended  almost  as  soon  as  it 
had  begun.  The  band  disappeared.  The  young 
men  grouped  themselves  in  careless  attitudes  here 
and  there.  A  few  horsemen  with  long  pikes 
spurred  their  blindfolded  steeds  aimlessly  this  way 
and  that.    Moving,  rustling,  the  multitude  waited. 

Then,  across  the  Hng,  a  great  door  slid  open, 
277 


Barbara  Gwynne 

revealing  a  black  maw,  and  out  of  that  black  maw 
a  beautiful  bull  galloped  forth  into  the  sunshine. 

The  bull,  small,  sturdy,  nimble,  lashed  its  sides 
and  kicked  up  its  heels  as  it  advanced.  Amid  such 
a  plethora  of  enemies  it  hardly  knew  whom  first  to 
slay.  But  a  youth  ran  towards  it,  waving  a  red 
cloak.  It  darted  upon  him.  He  halted,  awaiting  its 
onslaught  with  a  smile :  a  gallant  figure  of  a  mata- 
dor, clad  in  pale  blue  velvet  embroidered  with 
silver:  and,  when  the  bull  was  almost  on  him,  he 
extended  his  cloak  calmly,  negligently,  as  a  child 
extends  a  hoop  for  a  trained  dog  to  leap  through. 

And  the  bull,  instead  of  goring  the  matador, 
gored  the  cloak.  Its  breath  could  be  heard,  hissing 
with  eifort,  as  it  struck.  A  strange  sound,  that 
hissing  breath,  in  the  great  sunshine,  amid  the  vast, 
tense,  silent  multitude;  and  the  bull,  meeting  no 
resistance,  was  lifted  up  on  its  hind  legs.  Then 
another  red  cloak  caught  its  eye,  it  dashed  across 
the  arena,  it  struck  vainly  again. 

A  matador  in  yellow  played  with  it  a  little  while. 
He  held  his  cloak  now  to  the  right,  now  to  the  left, 
now  before  him,  now  behind  him,  and  the  bull,  as 
though  trained,  turned  nimbly  without  fail  this  way 
and  that  to  butt  the  scarlet  cloth. 

The  great  throng  laughed  and  applauded. 

"  Why,  he  seems  no  more  dangerous,"  said  Bar- 
bara, "than  a  trick  animal." 
278 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  a  picador  advanced  on  his  blindfolded  horse 
and  pricked  the  bull  with  his  long  pike. 

"  Ah,  he  is  dangerous  enough,"  she  sighed. 

For  now  the  bull's  head,  thrust  beneath  the 
horse's  breast,  was  lifting  it  up,  up.  The  rider  fell 
to  the  ground.  The  impaled  horse,  erect,  bran- 
dished its  forelegs  in  the  air  helplessly.  Then  it 
was  let  down,  and  the  bull,  hurriedly  shaking  its 
horns  free,  sped  after  another  red  cloak.  But  Bar- 
bara, pale,  with  tragical  eyes,  watched  the  poor 
horse. 

It  stood  motionless  in  the  sunshine,  its  feet 
planted  squarely,  and  it  seemed  to  pay  no  heed 
to  the  red  stream  which  gushed  from  its  breast 
on  to  the  yellow  sand. 

"But,"  said  Barbara,  "but " 

And  a  strange  excitement  seized  her.  She  had 
expected  to  be  disgusted,  but  she  was  moved,  in- 
stead, like  one  who  witnesses  a  tragedy.  This  bull 
fight  was  indeed  a  tragedy  wherein  even  death  itself 
was  real. 

"  But  that  horse.  .    .   It  will  soon  die." 

The  horse,  motionless,  seemed  to  dream.  The 
red  stream  gushed  with  incredible  abundance  from 
its  breast.  And  amid  the  glare  and  heat  and  noise 
it  stood  dying  in  the  tranquil  attitude  of  a  horse 
that  stands  in  the  shadow  of  an  oak  in  a  quiet 
pasture. 

279 


Barbara  Gwynne 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "how  strange!  To  see  a  huge 
creature  like  that  die !  " 

Suddenly  the  horse  fell. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  said  Jerome. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  she  panted.  "I  think  it 
is  fascinating.  It  is  hideously  fascinating.  I  un- 
derstand now  the  hideous  fascination  of  the  Roman 
games.  To  see  men  kill  and  be  killed.  .  .  Every- 
thing would  appear  tame  and  trivial  after  that." 

A  youth  in  pale  blue  ran  into  the  ring.  He  held 
in  either  hand  a  dart  hung  with  roses.  Laughing, 
he  followed  the  bull  about.  At  last  he  caught  its 
eye,  and  it  lowered  its  head  and  charged.  He  stood 
directly  in  its  path,  he  laughed  gaily  and  cruelly,  a 
dart  extended  in  each  hand,  his  pose  affectedly 
graceful. 

The  bull  thundered  on  him.  He  waited,  mo- 
tionless, his  white  teeth  gleaming,  his  eyes  dancing 
with  laughter.  Nor  did  he  move  a  muscle  until 
the  bull's  dreadful  horns  were  within  a  few  feet 
of  his  loins.  Then,  like  lightning,  he  leaned  over 
those  dreadful  horns,  he  planted  his  two  darts  side 
by  side  between  the  bull's  shoulders,  and  he  resumed 
at  once  his  motionless  and  gay  and  graceful  pose — ■ 
for  the  bull,  stung  with  pain,  had  straightway  halted 
in  its  headlong  course,  and  writhing  and  twisting, 
leaping  high  in  air  like  a  bucking  broncho,  it  tried  in 
vain  to  dislodge  the  banderillero's  rose-hung  darts. 
280 


Barbara  Gwynne 

But  another  banderillero  advanced.  It  charged 
him,  and  he,  too,  planted  in  its  back  his  flower- 
decked  banderilles.  Then  a  picador  pricked  it,  and 
it  slew  another  horse.  Then  a  half-dozen  matadors 
tormented  it  with  their  red  cloaks. 

But  the  bull  was  getting  tired. 

"  How  tired  he  is,"  said  Barbara.  "  He  has  frit- 
tered away  all  his  strength.  He  has  accomplished 
nothing.    And  now " 

A  swordsman  appeared.  He  carried  a  cloak  in 
one  hand  and  in  the  other  a  long  sword.  The  bull 
stood  in  the  sun-drenched  ring,  tired,  hopeless,  but 
still  facing  its  foes  with  a  courage  sullen  and 
admirable. 

The  swordsman  advanced  calmly.  It  turned  to 
meet  him.  With  lowered  head  it  pawed  the  sand. 
Planted  between  its  shoulders,  a  half-dozen  darts 
rose  and  fell  with  every  movement. 

The  swordsman  extended  his  red  cloak.  The  bull 
butted.  And,  as  it  did  so,  the  sword  was  buried 
behind  its  horns. 

The  bull,  unmindful  of  its  wound,  faced  its  de- 
stroyer. He  watched  it,  smiling.  And  it  began  to 
cough.  It  coughed  and  coughed.  Then,  suddenly, 
as  though  a  spring  had  been  touched,  it  gave  a 
great  start  and  fell. 

"Dead,"  said  Barbara.     "Dead." 

The  multitude  applauded.  Four  mules,  harnessed 
281 


Barbara  Gwynnc 

abreast,  dragged  off  the  bull  at  a  gay,  quick  trot. 
It  slid  upon  its  side  over  the  sand  behind  them, 
amid  a  jingle  of  bells,  one  sturdy  leg  stuck  up  in 
the  air  stiffly. 

"To  think  ..."  she  said.  "A  little  while  ago 
so  strong  and  indomitable  .  .  .  and  now  dragged 
ignominiously  off,  dead,  with  nothing  accomplished 
.    .    .  It's  like  men's  lives." 

Another  bull  dashed  into  the  ring.  It  had  a  con- 
quering air.  It  charged  everything.  Its  strength 
seemed  inexhaustible. 

"  But  it  will  soon  be  dead,"  she  mused. 

And  in  her  strange  excitement  she  compared  a 
bull  fight  with  the  life  of  man.  The  bull  was  man ; 
the  picadors  and  banderilleros  were  man's  vices 
and  temptations ;  the  swordsman  was  death.  Death 
none  could  escape.  But  vices  and  temptations  and 
weaknesses  might  well  be  escaped.  Life's  splen- 
did energy,  instead  of  being  dissipated,  might  be 
devoted  to  some  one  achievement.  Something  might 
be  accomplished  before  the  swordsman  came. 

A  second  matador  faced  the  tired  and  sullen 
bull.  But  he  was  not  very  skilful,  that  youth.  Time 
after  time  he  thrust  in  his  sword  nearly  to  the  hilt, 
plucked  it  forth  bright  red,  then  took  fresh  aim 
and  thrust  again.  The  bull  faced  him  always,  ac- 
cepting with  an  indomitable  air  those  fearful 
wounds. 

282 


Barbara  Gwynne 

Barbara  looked  up  from  the  tragedy  of  the  bull 
ring  to  the  serene  sky.  The  sky  was  blue,  a  pure 
and  tender  and  smiling  blue.  .  .  Down  in  the  ring 
that  horror  .  .  .  and  up  in  the  sky  that  serene  and 
gentle  beauty.  .  .  Why  would  not  man  look  up 
and  learn  the  secret  of  the  sky? 


A  bull,  beside  itself,  attacked  a  dead  horse  that 
lay  in  a  corner.  The  horse^s  head,  as  it  was  knocked 
about,  lolled  strangely;  the  neck  looked  incredibly 
long. 


Her  excitement  increased.  She  seemed  almost 
to  have  the  key  to  life's  sorry  mystery. 

Death  none  can  escape,  but  the  vices  and  weak- 
nesses of  life  are  naught  to  him  who  devotes  him- 
self, like  Ford  and  like  Jerome,  to  a  single  pur- 
pose. 

And  he  who  devotes  his  life  to  a  single  purpose, 
whether  that  purpose  be  noble  like  Ford's  or  igno- 
ble like  Jerome's,  has  a  dignity  that  others  lack. 

Dignity  ...  It  was  not  much,  perhaps.  But 
how  few  lives  possessed  it! 

Jerome's  aim  had  been  to  grow  rich,  and  he  had 
succeeded.  But  his  life  had  had  another  aim,  and 
283 


Barbara  Gwynne 

this  he  had  pursued  with  nobler  means,  with  hu- 
mihty,  with  delicate  kindness,  with  an  invincible  and 
touching  faith.    In  this  other  aim  was  he  to  fail? 

She  bit  her  lip,  she  coloured.  Does  a  woman 
ever  give  herself  without  love?  Ah,  yes,  she  often 
gives  herself  without  love.  She  gives  herself  com- 
passionately, as  she  might  hold  water  in  the  hollow 
of  her  hands  to  a  stricken  wayfarer's  parched  lips. 

She  glanced  at  him  compassionately.  How  strong 
he  was !  And  she  remembered  her  dreams.  .  .  No, 
they  must  neither  of  them  fail. 

She  remembered  her  life.  She  remembered  Cin- 
naminson  and  the  gossips.  She  remembered  Chew, 
Chew's  successors,  "  Vassa  "  and  the  critics'  praises, 
"  Hilda  Muller  "  and  the  critics'  sneers.  And  she 
remembered  Abercrombie's  letter,  offering  her  all 
that  life  again.  It  seemed  vain  and  empty  to  her 
now  beside  her  dreams. 

Yes,  she,  too,  had  frittered  away  her  life.  But 
she  was  still  young.  There  was  still  time.  They 
would  neither  of  them  fail. 


A  half-dozen  horses  lay  here  and  there  at  the 
side  of  the  ring.     A  black  and  white  bull,   sur- 
rounded by  small,  glittering,  gesticulating  figures, 
pawed  the  sand  in  rage,  exhaustion  and  despair. 
284 


Barbara  Gwynne 

The  flower-hung  darts  stuck  in  its  flesh  rose  and 
fell.  And  blood,  like  a  red  mantle,  draped  its 
shoulders. 

The  bull,  looking  mournfully  on  its  bright  tor- 
mentors, bellowed. 

The  multitude  laughed. 

The  bull  bellowed  again.  In  that  mournful  and 
tragic  sound  was  all  the  despair  of  the  man  who 
perceives  that  old  age  has  overtaken  him,  that  he 
has  achieved  nothing,  that  his  life  has  been  wasted. 

The  multitude  roared  with  laughter,  but  Barbara, 
beautiful  in  her  Eastern  dress,  lifted  her  soft  eyes 
to  the  sky. 

Those  luminous  depths  of  blue.  .  .  Those  pure, 
serene  and  tender  depths  of  blue.  .  .  The  sky  bent 
over  the  earth  with  a  divine  smile,  offering  its 
secret  through  the  ages.  .  . 

If  man  would  but  look  up,  ,  ■„, 


The  End 


285 


Barbara  Gwynne 

(LIFE) 

Ss  W.  B.  TRITES 


SOME 
ENGLISH 
REVIEWS 


By  the  Same  Author. 
"John  Cave." 

"  An  author  of  genius — there  is  really  no 
other  word  for  it.  ...  A  story  of  vivid 
and  palpitating  human  interest.  .  .  .  One 
of  the  most  remarkable  first  novels  we  have 
ever  read." — Daily  Graphic. 

"A  strong  novel,  a  powerful  story,  a  most 
interesting  and  fascinating  book." — Daily  Mail. 

**  The  book  is  altogether  a  remarkable  one." 
— Outlook. 

"A  remarkable  work,  an  absorbing  picture. 
Such  a  book  as  *  John  Cave '  is  not  easily  for- 
gotten; its  author  should  do  great  things." 
—Globe. 

"  The  author  knows  his  hero  as  one  knows 
one's  most  intimate  friend.  .  .  .  Portrayed 
with  accuracy  and  conviction  .  .  .  force 
and  delicacy." — Daily  News. 

"Though  it  may  sound  extravagant  praise 
to  say  that  *  John  Cave '  reads  like  the  work 
of  one  of  the  French  masters,  it  is  a  judg- 
ment which  every  chapter  of  this  remarkable 
first  novel  confirms." — Glasgow  News. 


William  Dean  Howells  says  in  Harper's  Magazine  for 
March :  "  And  we  would  not  leave  unnamed  Mr.  W.  B.  Trites, 
whose  two  very  extraordinary  books,  'John  Cave'  and  Life, 
are  now  making  him  known  in  England  for  the  mastery  of 
his  treatment  of  local  phases  not  before  studied." 


From  THRONE  AND  COUNTRY. 

"  One  of  these  days  I  am  going  to  be  the  pioneer  of  a  new 
profession.  I  shall  call  myself  '  The  Library  Doctor/  and  my 
business  will  be  to  prescribe  the  right  books  for  you  to  read. 
I  shall  first  feel  your  pulse,  demand  to  inspect  your  tongue, 
make  solicitous  inquiries  about  your  liver  and  appetite,  and 
perform  all  the  pantomime  of  Harley  Street.  It  will  be  neces- 
sary, of  course,  to  have  charts.  I  see  great  possibilities  here. 
Perhaps  you  need  more  sugar :  I  should  prescribe  a  course  of 
Mr.  Maurice  Hewlett's  'The  Garden  of  Renny,'  the  later 
works  of  E.  Temple  Thurston,  and  Laurence  Sterne  in 
homoeopathic  doses.  Or  it  may  be  you  need  bromides,  and 
opium  to  soothe  you:  what  better  medicine  than  a  dose  of 
E.  V.  Lucas  or  the  '  Q '  mixture?  You  are  slothful,  and  com- 
placent, and  require  gentle  irritation — I  hastily  order  the  li- 
brary to  supply  you  with : — Marie  Corelli,  3  vols. ;  William  Le 
Queux,  I  vol.;  Charles  Garvice,  J^  vol. 

"  You  begin,  I  hope,  to  see  the  infinite  possibilities  of  my 
plan.  Do  you  feel  the  need  of  a  nerve  tonic  ?  Kipling,  Joseph 
Conrad  are  for  you ;  are  you  perfectly  normal,  with  heart  beats 
and  pulse  beats  regular,  sleeping  and  eating  with  the  unthink- 
ing sameness  of  the  well-ordered  life?  My  chart  tells  me  that 
only  a  slight  fillip  is  required — shall  we  say  Anthony  Hope, 
Robert  Hichens,  and  a  few  doses  of  the  best  romantic  writers, 
to  be  taken  as  required,  and  during  meals? 

"  But  there  comes  a  time  when  you  may  be  well  physically, 
and  yet  ill  at  ease  within  yourself,  when  you  feel  that  all  books 
that  do  not  treat  of  the  actualities  of  life  fail  to  hold  your 
interest ;  when  you  cannot  attune  your  mind  either  to  romance 
or  idealism,  and  your  soul  cries  for  a  book  that  is  real,  that 
reflects  something  of  the  life  you  have  lived  yourself.  I 
prescribe  the  novels  of  H.  G.  Wells  and  Arnold  Bennett,  and 
sometimes  the  meaner  medicine  of  their  followers — and  I  pre- 
scribe also  a  remarkable  book  I  have  just  read  called  Life. 

"  A  bold  title ! 

"  What  manner  of  writer  is  this  who  has  the  hardihood  to 
label  two  hundred  and  eighty-three  pages  of  print  with  one  of 
the  three  greatest  words  in  the  world  ?    Life,  Love  and  Death 


— they  have  been  the  themes  of  a  million  books  through  the 
dead  centuries,  and  yet  here  is  one  book  that  arrogates  to  it- 
self the  all-sweeping  title  of  Life.  Its  author  is  Mr.  W.  B. 
Trites,  whose  former  book,  *  John  Cave,'  I  know  only  by 
rumour,  and  by  the  extracts  from  press-notices  which  face 
the  title  page  of  this  book.  And  having  read  Life,  I  am  ready 
to  believe  the  critics  who  acclaim  Mr.  Trites  as  a  genius. 
It  is  curiously  Russian  in  treatment  and  method,  even  to  the 
light  of  hope  and  endeavour  that  shines  persistently  through 
the  grey  clouds  of  pessimism. 

**  The  story  passes  chiefly  in  New  York  and  an  American 
town  Cinnaminson — which  is  as  petty  and  gossipy  as  the  fa- 
mous Barbie  of  the  *  House  with  the  Green  Shutters.'  Here  is 
Jerome  McWade,  a  grocer's  assistant,  making  money  as  well  by 
chicken  farming,  and  suddenly  seeing  the  vision  of  a  fortune, 
when  a  customer  comes  in  to  buy  beeswax  in  order  to  make  a 
face  cream. 

"That  is  the  foundation  of  Jerome's  fortune.  It  is 
*  Tono-Bungay  *  over  again — ^he  opens  beauty  parlours  first 
here,  and  then  everywhere ;  he  schemes,  and  cheats,  and  has 
only  one  interest  in  life — the  making  of  money. 

"  He  is  the  type  of  the  American  multi-millionaire  drawn 
remarkably,  from  his  mean  start  to  his  meaner  zenith.  What 
is  there  truer  than  the  following  of  the  *  multis  *  as  a  class? 

"  '  They  were  horribly  vain.  Not  their  daughters'  vanity 
but  their  own  it  was,  that  continually  drove  their  daughters  to 
contract  with  noblemen  marriages  tragic  and  vile.  .  .  And 
they  were  as  sensitive  as  flowers.  When,  having  broken  this 
law  or  that,  exposure  came,  with  the  certainty  of  arrest  and 
gaol,  they  collapsed  on  the  instant.  They  took  immediately 
to  their  beds.  Shame  and  fright  consumed  them  like  a  fire. 
Surrounded  by  their  families,  they  soon  die.  .  .  Wonderful 
men!  Their  incomparable  energy  might  have  changed  this 
ugly  and  wretched  world  to  a  happy  garden.  But  they  wasted 
all  that  energy  in  gambling,  lying,  cheating  and  steahng.* 

"  The  contrast  to  McWade  is  Ford  the  doctor,  who  lives 
his  life  in  the  cloistered  calm  of  the  laboratory  searching  for 
the  germs  of  disease  to  cure  mankind.  And,  between  these 
two,  there  is  the  girl  Barbara  Gwynne,  a  shop  assistant  who  be- 
comes an  actress  as  great  as  Bernhardt,  striving  to  create,  out 
of  the  artificiality  of  her  life,  the  greatness  of  art  which  the 
world  will  not  have. 

"  Those  are  the  three  protagonists  in  the  book.  You  must 
read  how  they  work  out  their  destinies.  They  symbolise  ma- 
terial man,  and  ideal  man,  and  human  woman  with  the  eternal 
conflict  and  doubt  in  her  soul  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  This  is  a  noble  book,  because,  though  it  touches  the 
horror  of  death,  and  the  ugliness  of  things,  it  uplifts  with  the 


pure  vein  of  hope  that  runs  through  It.  There  is  a  passage 
where  Barbara,  walking  by  the  shore,  perceives  hundreds  of 
grey  bedraggled  gulls  killed  by  the  storm. 

"As   she  bent   over   them,   shocked   and   sorrowful, 

some   moved  their   wings  in   a   feeble   effort  to  escape. 

Poor  things !    What  had  killed  them?    The  wild  weather? 

....  A  warm,  wet,  grey,  tempestuous  winter,  fattening 

the  green  land,  preparing  it  for  a  divine  spring. 

"And  that  is  life!     Out  of  death — life;  out  of  evil — 
good;  out  of  suffering — peace." 
Mr.  Andrew  Bede  in  a  page  review  in  Throne  and  Country. 

"A  new  style  in  literature." — New  Age. 


"  A  wViter  of  great  power  and  originality,  gifted  with  the 
rare  power  of  forcing  home  as  reality  what  before  has  seemed 
transiency  and  illusion." — Morning  Post. 


From  T.P.'s  WEEKLY. 

"  Mr.  W.  B.  Trites,  whose  first  novel,  '  John  Cave,'  got  a 
good  deal  of  attention  from  critics  because  of  its  conscien- 
tiousness of  workmanship  and  its  sincerity  of  purpose,  makes 
his  second  essay  in  fiction  with  Life. 

"  The  book  is  profoundly  interesting,  and  grows  in 
strength  with  every  page;  numerous  characters  come  and  go, 
but  no  matter  how  short  their  time  upon  the  stage,  we  get 
to  know  them  with  extraordinary  vividness.  Barbara  Gwynne 
is  the  heroine  of  Life.  She  is  a  beautiful  girl,  an  orphan 
living  in  a  small  town  with  an  old  maid;  she  works  in  Smol- 
lett's large  drapery  store,  to  which  she  goes  and  comes  every 
day  by  train.  Barbara  in  her  journeys,  we  are  told,  glanced 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left. 

"For  if  her  eyes,  shining  with  the  soft  and  tender 
gaiety  of  youth,  were  ever  permitted  to  wander,  they 
were  sure  to  encounter  a  man's  eyes ;  and  this  man  might 
be  a  millionaire  in  a  motor  car,  he  might  be  a  labourer 
digging  in  a  ditch,  but  at  any  rate  his  eyes  would  look 
deep  into  hers  in  an  appeal  at  once  so  humble  and  so 
daring  that  it  would  trouble  her  strangely. 

"  Naturally  a  girl  whose  eyes  had  such  magnetic  powers 
could  not  escape  the  censure  of  the  gossips  of  Cinnaminson  I 


Then  she  had  men  friends.    How  could  it  be  otherwise  since 
she  stood  behind  the  men's  counters  of  the  stores? 

"When  a  man  shopped  at  Smollett's  the  prettiest 
girls  surrounded  him.  They  smiled  up  in  his  eyes,  they 
held  his  hand  in  fitting  a  glove,  to  measure  him  for  a  col- 
lar they  actually  put  soft,  light  arms  about  his  neck. 

*'  It  is  to  be  hoped,  for  self-preservation's  sake,  that 
American  wives  take  care  to  buy  their  husbands'  collars.  How- 
ever, gossip  drove  Barbara  from  her  home,  and  she  went  to 
New  York.  There  her  career  was  that  of  all  beautiful  heroines 
in  novels — she  went  to  the  usual  theatrical  manager  and  had 
straight  away  a  *  success  of  temperament.'  The  shrewd  Mr. 
Abercrombie  engaged  her  there  and  then,  and  before  a  year 
was  out  *  she  became  a  personage.  The  best  shops  insisted 
upon  selling  her  the  smartest  gowns  on  credit'  Henceforth 
there  was  no  looking  back  for  Barbara ! 

"  But  this  hackneyed  story  of  the  insignificant  shop-girl 
suddenly  taking  the  theatrical  world  by  storm  need  not  be 
dwelt  upon  or  taken  over-critically.  Barbara  is  merely  a  pivot 
round  which  swings  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people.  Fore- 
most and  smartest  among  them  is  Mr.  Jerome  S.  McWade,  the 
triumph  of  the  book.  Studies  of  the  self-made  millionaire  are 
always  interesting;  but  I  do  not  remember  one  quite  so  ruth- 
less, so  vivid,  and  so  fascinating  as  Jerome.  He  also  starts 
from  Cinnaminson  as  *  grocery  clerk  *  in  a  little  shop.  We  first 
meet  him  in  the  spare  minutes  of  a  very  busy  June  morning 
examining  the  cash  register,  *  a  new  contrivance  that  he  be- 
lieved could  be  outwitted.'  Into  the  grocery  store  came  Mrs. 
Woodford  to  buy  the  constituents  for  the  making  of  a  com- 
plexion cream.  Jerome  got  the  recipe,  started  experimenting, 
and  was  soon  manufacturing  and  selling  the  cream  on  his  own. 
His  next  venture  was  a  beauty  shop  in  New  York,  of  which  he 
made  Mrs.  Woodford  the  manageress.  This  poor  lady,  having 
given  the  original  recipe,  expected  a  partnership,  but  Jerome 
explained  to  her  that  as  she  had  no  money  to  put  into  the  busi- 
ness her  proposal  was  preposterous.  The  'beauty'  business 
flourished,  and  in  many  pages  we  see  'Life'  through  the  eyes 
of  the  specialist  who  preys  on  the  ever-present  desire  of 
woman  for  youth  and  beauty.  Skinfoods  and  tinctures,  and 
washes  and  powders,  with  all  the  accompanying  paraphernalia 
of  massage  and  vibration  and  kneading,  soon  brought  the  en- 
terprising Jerome  wealth.  With  cold  analysis  we  are  intro- 
duced to  his  methods.  Self  first,  and  everybody  else  second, 
is  his  motto,  while  work  early  and  late  backs  it  up.  He  is 
neither  a  tyrant  or  a  nigger-driver;  he  does  a  good  turn  if  it 
will  not  injure  his  business,  and  does  not  begrudge  to  pay  well 
for  the  right  kind  of  people. 

6 


"  One  example  will  show  how  well  Mr.  Trites  handles  this 
subject  of  the  successful  man.  Mrs.  Woodford  had  helped  in 
the  building  up  of  the  business;  moreover,  she  had  faith  in  its 
powers.  She  was  thirty-seven,  but  in  the  *  treatments  '  she  had 
found  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  On  a  day  she  was  feeling  par- 
ticularly confident  as  to  her  good  looks  she  had  an  interview 
with  her  employer. 

"Jerome  S.  Me  Wade  brooded  at  his  desk  of  yellow 

oak.     On   her  entrance  he   scanned  her  critically.     His 

bright  eyes  lingered  on  her  face.    With  a  thrill  of  pleasure 

he  thought  that  he,  too,  marvelled  at  the  look  of  youth 

nd  freshness  that  had  returned  to  her. 

" '  Mrs.  Woodford,'  he  said,  '  there  is  a  little  matter 
[  want  to  speak  to  you  about.' 

"'Yes?' 

"  *  You  see,' — his  air  was  nervous, — '  our  success 
depends  on  our  convincing  people  that  we  make  them 
look  young  again — so  I  think  it  would  be  better  if  Miss 
Churchill  managed  the  parlour  hereafter.  You — ^you  will 
devote  yourself  to — to  executive  work  in  the  inner  office.' 

"  He  looked  at  her  with  an  awkward  and  obstinate 
smile.    Her  over-red  lips,  he  noted,  were  twitching. 

"'You  want  me,'  she  said,  *to  keep  out  of  sight?' 

"  *  Well,  yes.' 

"But  later,  when  Mrs.  Woodford  tried  her  own  wings  in 
business  and  fell,  Jerome  helped  her  up  again.  Apart  from 
money-making,  Jerome  has  one  other  purpose  in  life — he  loves 
Barbara.  The  story  of  his  wooing  is  interwoven  with  his  rise 
to  millions,  and  hers  to  fame. 

"  And  the  end  ?  That  is  held  to  the  very  last  page ; 
whether  it  is  true  to  life  or  not  each  reader  must  decide  for 
himself  or  herself.  The  author's  sympathy  seems  to  be  with 
the  money-maker  right  through,  or  rather  with  the  man  who 
devotes  himself  to  a  single  purpose.  '  He  who  devotes  himself 
to  a  single  purpose,  whether  that  purpose  be  noble,  like  Ford's, 
or  ignoble,  like  Jerome's,  has  a  dignity  that  others  lack.'  We 
take  leave  of  Jerome  travelling  with  a  retinue  of  servants — 
we  see  him,  in  his  clothes,  his  manners,  and  his  style  of  living, 
the  complete  aristocrat.  The  description  of  the  spending  of 
his  day  is  a  delight.  From  his  having  eight  o'clock  coffee  and 
toast  in  bed  and  his  valet  buttoning  his  '  crisp  and  delicate 
shirt,'  to  his  evening  dinner  party  of  two  hundred  guests,  who 
ate  and  drank  noisily  to  the  accompaniment  of  Beethoven 
played  by  a  famous  violinist,  Jerome  is  superb.  Yet,  with  all 
the  care  lavished  upon  him,  we  fail  to  like  him — he  remains  in 
spite  of  all  that  money  and  clothes  can  do  the  *  grocery  clerk ' 
on  the  make.    So  many  novelists  to-day  glorify  money  and  the 

7 


money-maker  that  an  anti-materialist  literary  cycle  is  due. 
Life  can  be  recommended  as  an  interesting,  vital,  and  pains- 
taking novel  making  one  look  forward  with  eagerness  for 
further  books  from  Mr.  Trites's  pen." 

N.H.W.  in  a  page  review  in  T.P.'s  Weekly. 


"  A  truly  remarkable  novel,  by  a  new  author  •  •  >  blent 
of  irony  and  sheer  beauty,  and  written  by  one  who  is  un- 
equivocally a  brilliant  artist." — Music. 

"  A  powerful  novel,  a  remarkable,  strong  and  realistic 
picture  of  its  subject." — Morning  Leader. 


From  THE  BIRMINGHAM  POST. 

"  Mr.  Trites  so  far  has  only  given  one  book  to  the  world, 
*  John  Cave/  but  it  was  generally  admitted  that  he  had  made 
an  excellent  beginning.  After  a  substantial  interval  he  has 
produced  the  story  which  he  calls  Life.  The  title  is  in  itself 
a  challenge,  for  life  is  vast,  profound,  and  complex,  and  can 
hardly  be  depicted  within  the  compass  of  a  six-shilling  novel. 
We  readily  admit  that  most  of  the  people  to  whom  Mr.  Trites 
introduces  us  were  chiefly  occupied  in  *  seeing  life,'  as  the 
phrase  goes,  and  a  sordid,  vulgar,  lecherous  form  of  life,  too. 
But  the  author  of  Life  has  the  creative  power  to  make  some 
at  least  of  his  characters  live.  Jerome  S.  McWade,  the  grocery 
clerk  of  Cinnaminson,  an  American  provincial  town,  displays 
early  in  the  story  the  acquisitive  instinct  which  leads  him  to 
run  a  boom  in  *  beauty  parlours '  and  *  youth-renewing '  char- 
latanry to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  fame,  which  in  America  is 
the  stand  occupied  by  the  man  who  bosses  the  markets  and 
rigs  the  Napoleonic  deals  in  finance.  He  is  in  love  with  Bar- 
bara Gwynne,  a  surpassingly  beautiful  and  circumspect  damsel, 
who  earns  eight  dollars  a  week  in  a  dry  goods  store  uptown 
selling  neckties  to  the  dudes.  Jerome's  charms  are  for  the 
time  being  eclipsed  by  the  grosser  glitter  of  Elisha  Chew,  who 
has  money  to  burn  on  dinners  and  trips  to  Island  Park,  which 
savours  of  Coney  Island.  But  Elisha  one  night  over-reaches 
himself  in  an  attempt  to  entrap  Barbara  to  her  undoing,  and  re- 
veals himself  to  her  as  the  atrocious  young  cad  he  is.  Taunted 
by  her  neighbours  and  friends,  the  sensitive  and  ashamed  girl 
resolves  to  flee,  but  young  Ford,  a  millionaire — Life  throbs  with 
millionaires ! — who  has  studied  medicine,  and  is  now  pursuing 
bacterial  research  and  serum-therapy,  counsels  her  to  go  to 

8 


New  York,  and  become  an  actress.    So  she  quits  the  necktie 
counter  and  goes  West. 

"As  a  matter  of  course,  Barbara  turns  out  to  be  a  his- 
trionic genius,  and  captivates  a  great  entrepreneur,  who  writes 
for  her  a  play  called  '  Vassa  ' — *  Carmen  with  the  wickedness 
left  out.'  Equally  of  course,  she  succeeds,  and  becomes  the 
rage  of  the  town.  Jerome,  now  immensely  rich — let  it  be  said 
Jerome  is  a  real  good  fellow— and  Ford  are  rivals  for  her 
affections.  The  student's  wooing  is  diversified  with  disquisi- 
tions on  trypanosomes,  the  microbes  of  sleeping  sickness,  and 
descriptions  of  the  horrors  of  death  from  tetanus,  the  anti- 
toxin of  which  he  is  trying  to  discover.  This,  we  are  to  as- 
sume, is  an  episode  of  real  'Life.'  Barbara  is  pledged  to 
marry  Ford,  and  readers  will  anticipate  the  sequel.  He  breaks 
a  tube  of  tetanus  culture  in  his  hand,  the  bacilli  enter  the 
wound,  and  in  a  passage  of  peculiar  horror  Barbara  is  shown 
rushing  from  his  bedside,  before  the  chloroform  cone  puts 
an  end  to  his  agonies.  Jerome  alone  is  left.  In  her  distrac- 
tion Barbara  returns  to  the  stage,  financed  by  her  admirer. 
Her  enterprise  fails,  and  Jerome  narrowly  escapes  ruin  in  a 
market  slump.  But  the  Napoleon  of  finance  rigs  the  market 
for  a  fresh  triumph,  and  the  scene  changes  to  the  Basque 
country,  where  Barbara  rests  for  a  year.  By  and  by  comes 
Jerome  in  his  magnificent  yacht,  still  the  devout  lover,  and 
so  lifelike  is  the  story  that  the  two  go  together  to  a  San 
Sebastian  bullfight,  where  in  the  intervals  of  a  lurid  and  grue- 
some description  of  the  tortures  of  the  bulls  and  the  horses 
we  are  permitted  to  witness  the  climax  of  their  wooing.  Bar- 
bara Gwynne  is  a  true  specimen  of  womanhood,  and  Jerome's 
complex  and  very  American  personality  is  vividly  and  con- 
vincingly conveyed,  for  Mr.  Trites  is  an  artist,  and  has 
written  a  notable  book.  But  if  the  whirl  of  carnality,  of 
extravagance,  of  selfishness  and  vanity  which  he  describes  be 
*  Life '  as  seen  in  America — there  can  be  little  doubt  that  it 
is — we  must  turn  aside  from  it  with  a  sigh  of  lamentation." 

Birmingham  Daily  Post. 


"A  remarkable  novel,  strongly  written,  with  marked  in- 
dividuality of  style." — Evening  Times. 

"  Mr.  W.  B.  Trites  has  written  a  book  which,  although 
eminently  American,  is  extremely  French.  It  might  have 
come  from  the  pen  of  Maupassant.  One  very  remarkable 
characteristic  in  this  author's  work  is  his  extraordinary  ver- 
satility. He  knows  how  to  draw  the  lights  and  shades  so 
finely  that  the  figures  stand  out  absolutely  lifelike." 

Bristol  Times  and  Mirror. 


"  A  fascinating  story  told  in  a  style  suggestive  of  some  of 
the  great  French  writers." — Northern  Echo  (Darlington). 

"  Extraordinarily  French  in  all  its  spirit,  its  style,  its  es- 
sence. ...  It  reads  like  life  itself,  and  justifies  the  title." 
— The  Observer. 

"  Mr.  Trites's  *  John  Cave '  was  so  remarkable  a  first  novel 
that  one  approaches  the  present  volume  expectantly.  Nor  is 
expectation  disappointed.  Life  is  a  thoroughly  capable  piece 
of  work.  It  is  biting;  occasionally  it  touches  unpleasant 
things;  the  author  displays  a  weakness  for  coarse,  lurid 
words;  but  the  book  has  a  message.  Life  is  shown  in  two 
aspects — with  and  without  a  definite  aim.  Illustrating  the  lat- 
ter are  such  characters  as  Elisha  Chew,  the  millionaire,  whose 
gross  and  unworthy  treatment  of  Barbara  is  of  a  piece  with 
his  moral  and  social  degeneracy.  The  former  finds  exposition 
in  Jerome  McWade  and  Dr.  Ford,  the  one  working  for  him- 
self, the  other  for  humanity.  Woman  is  loyally  presented  in 
the  lovely  Barbara  Gwynne,  whose  evolution  from  shop  girl 
to  dramatic  star  is  one  of  the  happiest  features  of  the  story. 
The  psychology  of  her  love  for  Ford  and  of  her  effect  upon 
him  is  supremely  well  worked  out.  His  scientific  work  had 
taught  this  man  restraint.  It  had  engendered  a  cynical  atti- 
tude. But  the  lure  of  passion  was  ever  before  his  eyes.  Love 
co-related  these  warring  tendencies,  disproving  cynicism  and 
revealing  happiness  as  a  perpetual  state  of  giving,  wherein 
restraint  is  an  act  of  devotion,  passion  of  worship.  The 
descriptions  of  the  beauty  parlour  and  the  scientific  laboratory 
are  wonderfully  reahstic;  the  author  has  been  at  great  pains 
to  collect  and  verify  precise  information  regarding  the  pro- 
duction of  anti-toxins  and  sera.  .  .  .  The  final  note  of  the 
book — inspired  by  the  tranquil,  sunlit  sky  above  the  bull-ring — 
is  significant — '  if  man  would  but  look  up.'  " — Glasgow  Herald. 


"Vivid  and  pulsating  liie."—Athen(2um. 

From  THE  SHEFFIELD  TELEGRAPH. 

"  I  have  so  often  inveighed  against  false  realists  that  it  is 
perhaps  incumbent  on  me  to  explain  what  a  real  realist  is. 
Better  than  any  explanation  of  mine,  however,  would  be  the 
careful  study  of  three  books  I  am  going  to  discuss  this  week. 
In  outlook  upon  life,  in  treatment  and  in  style,  they  are  as 

10 


different  from  one  another  as  may  be.  They  are  only  similar 
in  their  typical  modernity,  and  their  resolute  determination 
from  different  points  of  view  to  see  life  steadily  and  to  see  it 
whole.  They  avoid  exaggeration  and  attempt  to  paint  the 
thing  as  they  see  it  for  the  God  of  things  as  they  are. 

"Your  false  realist — your  Zola  without  Zola's  genius 
who  is  happily  going  out  of  fashion — would  paint  all  the  ugly 
things  he  saw  well  enough.  But  he  would  leave  out  all  the 
pretty  things,  and  insert  in  their  stead  all  the  ugly  things  he 
imagined  would  be  there.  He  would  batten  upon  the  vice, 
the  wickedness,  the  sordidness  of  the  world,  and  forget,  and 
try  to  make  his  reader  forget,  that  the  world  is,  after  all,  a 
mixture,  not  of  black  and  white,  but  of  all  sorts  of  colours 
and  shades.  Well,  your  real  realist  does  not  forget  that. 
Even  if  he  has  to  deal  with  the  ugly,  he  does  not  forget  that 
the  beautiful  exists.  He  wants  truth,  whether  or  not  it 
squares  with  his  philosophy.  And  the  pursuit  of  truth  is,  to 
my  mind,  the  literary  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail. 

"  Since  I  did  not  read  *  John  Cave,'  which  was  received 
with  such  an  unusual  chorus  of  hearty  appreciation,  I  am  un- 
able to  judge  whether  Mr.  Trites  has  or  has  not  advanced. 
Certainly  his  Life  contains  some  amazingly  clear  and  vivid 
passages.  In  a  series  of  vignettes  one  gets  a  wonderful  kalei- 
doscopic picture  of  Transatlantic  life.  .  .  .  The  young 
scientist  who  gives  his  life  in  an  effort  to  find  a  cure  for 
tetanus,  the  shop-girl  who  becomes  a  great  actress,  and  the 
pushful  store-clerk  who  ends  as  a  millionaire  are  living  fig- 
ures, while  the  description  of  the  bullfight,  with  its  allegorical 
symbolism,  is  a  masterpiece.  I  shall,  for  the  future,  watch 
Mr.  Trites's  career  with  interest." — A.C.W.L.  in  a  column  re- 
view in  the  Sheffield  Daily  Telegraph. 


"Life  is  unquestionably  a  book  which  should  be  read. 
We  will  even  call  it  remarkable,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the 
page  of  extracts  from  reviews  of  Mr.  Trites's  earlier  book, 
*  John  Cave,'  shows  that  this  epithet  has  already  been  bestowed 
upon  the  author  at  least  four  times." — Bookman. 

"  To  Mr.  Trites  belongs  the  distinction  of  having  written 
a  really  remarkable  first  novel.  There  was  in  'John  Cave'  a 
human  interest,  a  sense  of  character  and  a  breadth  of  view 
which  proclaimed  the  author's  skill  as  a  literary  craftsman, 
and  placed  him  at  once  in  the  forefront  of  modern  fiction 
writers.  In  'John  Cave'  Mr.  Trites  fixed  our  attention  with 
unerring  effect  on  a  central  and  dominating  character.  In 
Life  he  has  widened  his  canvas  in  keeping  with  his  subject, 
and  has  offered  us  more  than  one  study  in  personality,  and 

II 


several  excellently  suggested  minor  figures.  .  .  .  An  ar- 
resting novel  which  shows  the  sordidness  and  the  nobility  of 
human  endeavour  with  many  skilful  touches." — Globe. 

"The  subject  is  handled  in  epic  style,  based  on  that  of 
the  French  realists.  The  book  is  certainly  a  remarkable  one, 
and  the  author  has  mastered  the  art  of  dramatic  narrative." — 
Irish  Times  (Dublin). 


From  THE  DAILY  NEWS. 

"  Mr.  Trites  is  a  realist  who  is  curiously  little  concerned 
with  detail.  He  shows  us  realities,  as  it  were,  through  the  big 
end  of  a  telescope.  In  this  American  story  of  money-making 
and  love-making  in  strange  towns,  we  have  a  number  of  swift 
far  hints  of  a  real  world.  We  are  given  glimpses,  now  of  a 
shop,  now  of  a  beauty  parlour,  now  of  a  theatrical  manager's 
office,  but  we  see  each  of  them  as  a  remote  place,  and,  before 
we  have  been  able  to  examine  and  domesticate  its  details,  it  has 
disappeared.  Or  one  might  describe  Mr.  Trites's  novel  as  life 
seen  in  a  series  of  flashlights — flashlights,  however,  which  have 
been  carefully  selected  and  arranged  so  as  to  have  artistic 
meaning. 

"  For  it  is  no  passion  for  photography  that  has  made  Mr. 
Trites  a  realist.  He  feels,  no  doubt,  the  sheer  intellectual 
pleasure  of  accurate  observation.  Having  taken  as  his  hero 
an  ambitious  but  less  than  honest  young  shopman,  Jerome  S. 
McWade,  he  must  have  enjoyed  writing  such  a  passage  as  that 
in  which  he  describes  Jerome's  energetic  happiness  as  he 
rushed  about  the  shop  on  a  tropical  morning  *  with  the  skill 
and  speed  of  an  acrobat  on  a  cramped  stage.* 

"  '  Work  made  him  happy  always.  Work  meant  to  him, 
however,  only  over-reaching,  only  legal  theft.  And  the  sincere 
happiness  that  radiated  from  his  smile,  being  mistaken  by 
everyone  for  unselfish  goodwill,  helped  him  to  persuade  patron 
after  patron  to  reject  the  better  articles  they  really  wanted, 
and  to  buy  instead  the  worse  ones  on  which  he  got  a  good 
commission.' 

"  But  it  is  as  a  dramatised  comment  on  life,  not  as  a  chron- 
icle of  psychological  and  material  facts,  that  Life  is  most 
remarkable.  Like  the  author's  previous  novel,  *  John  Cave,*  it 
is  the  comment  of  a  hypersensitive  man  who  has  found  the 
civilised  earth  something  of  a  mistake.  His  novel  is  almost 
as  personal  as  a  lyric.  Sensitive,  like  one  of  his  characters,  to 
'  the  beauty  of  the  sunshine,  the  beauty  of  the  moonlight,  the 
beauty  of  the  windy  tumbling  sea,  .  .  .  the  beauty  of  girls' 
minds  and  faces/  he  seems  to  be  protesting  even  in  the  most 

12 


apparently  objective  description  against  a  world  in  which 
disease  and  cheating  and  meanness  are  enthroned. 

**  If  drama  without  comment  is  middling  literature,  how- 
ever, comment  without  drama  is  no  better,  and  Mr.  Trites's 
novel  is  worth  serious  consideration  only  because  it  expresses 
a  sincere  and  personal  attitude  in  terms  of  men  and  women 
who,  on  the  whole,  behave  like  real  people  and  in  an  interest- 
ing way.  Jerome  McWade,  the  grocery  clerk  who  learns  the 
secret  of  a  complexion  cream,  and  rises  through  a  beauty  par- 
lour business  to  the  position  of  a  multi-millionaire;  Ford,  a 
young  man  of  science;  and  Barbara,  an  exquisite  shop-girl 
who  flies  from  slanderous  tongues  and  finds  refuge  in  the 
crowds  of  the  city,  where  she  wins  fame  as  an  actress,  are  the 
chief  characters.  And  they  all  have  a  happy  trick  of  coming 
out  of  the  remote  distance  into  reality  and  interesting  us  in 
their  fates.  One  wishes  at  times  that  the  epic  of  Jerome's 
fortunes  were  narrated  with  fewer  omissions;  it  is  for  the 
most  part  a  tale  told  in  dots  and  dashes.  But  perhaps  this 
sketchy  and  peeping  sort  of  realism  suits  the  author's  talents 
best. 

"  Barbara  Gwynne,  the  heroine,  a  poor  musician's  child, 
whose  father  left  her  nothing  but  his  temperament,  has  a  way 
of  swimming  into  reality,  like  a  star,  and  then  dwindling  away. 
Or  it  might  be  truer  to  say  that,  though  a  susceptible  reader 
might  easily  fall  iA  h)ve  with  her  beautiful  mouth  and  eyes, 
she  has  the  reality  of  a  wraith  rather  than  a  hand-shaking 
human  being.  She  is,  as  it  were,  transparent.  Rather,  let  us 
say—for  the  word  suggests  the  something  lyrical  that  she  per- 
sonifies— she  is  translucent.  She  is  a  translucent  being  mov- 
ing in  a  translucent  world.  She  is  real  enough,  however,  at  a 
crisis.  She  is  real  when,  a  creature  of  light  and  flowers  and 
happy,  chaste  thoughts,  she  first  finds  that  she  has  been  in 
love  with  a  swine.  She  is  real  again  when  she  falls  in  love 
with  Ford,  who  regards  marriage  as  a  slavery,  and  love  as  an 
illusion,  and  Ford  is  exceedingly  real,  too,  as  his  logic  col- 
lapses into  ruins,  and  he  finds  that  he  cannot  accept  the 
sacrifice  of  Barbara. 

"  The  pages  into  which  Ford  comes,  indeed,  are  the  most 
life-like  in  the  book.  Excellently  imagined  is  the  scene  of  the 
temptation  when  Barbara's  selflessness  at  once  betrays  and 
protects  her,  Ford  being  as  emancipated  from  ordinary  beliefs 
and  conventions  as  his  counterpart,  Bazaroff,  in  '  Fathers  and 
Sons.'  Horrible  in  its  actuality  again  is  the  scene  of  Ford's 
dying  agonies,  when,  having  smashed  a  test  tube  filled  with 
tetanus  bacilli  in  his  hand,  he  succumbs  to  lock-jaw.  Those 
pages  recording  the  progress  of  the  disease  are  painful  read- 
ing :  one  shrinks  from  them  as  from  witnessing  hospital  hor- 
rors.   One  suspects  that  Mr.  Trites  may  not  have  introduced 

13 


them  with  a  purely  artistic  purpose,  but  in  order  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  risks  run  by  vivisectionists,  whom  he  militantly, 
even  shrilly,  favours. 

"  Perhaps,  on  the  other  hand,  the  agonies  were  introduced 
without  any  propagandist  bias,  and  in  accordance  with  the 
author's  general  purpose  of  revealing  the  world  of  facts  that 
entangles  the  world  of  men  and  women.  He  is  very  deter- 
mined to  show  us  life  as  it  is,  or  as  he  imagines  it  is,  that  we 
may  judge  it  for  ourselves — a  place  of  draughty  gloom  in 
which,  nevertheless,  a  httle  taper  hght  of  faith  may  with  some 
resolution  waver.  Or  if  he  conjures  up  in  your  imagination 
a  world  of  sunlight,  it  is  a  world  in  which  monstrous  insults 
to  the  sun  grow  thickly.  Like  the  majority  of  realists  he  is 
especially  conscious  of  the  manifestation  of  sex  in  common 
and  inappropriate  places.  The  '  spirit  of  feverish  and  unwhole- 
some gaiety '  of  the  holiday  makers  in  wood  or  meadow  on 
Independence  Day  becomes,  in  his  vision,  '  finally  a  delirium 
wherein  these  middle-aged  persons  would  manifest  in  strange 
and  ugly  ways  a  thwarted  sexual  excitement.'  Everywhere 
in  the  garden  of  the  world  he  is  fascinated  and  repelled  by 
the  appearance  of  the  same  treacherous  serpent — sex  untrans- 
figured  by  soul.  But  he  does  not  limit  his  observation  to 
ugly  and  evil  things.  His  book,  indeed,  has  plenty  of  light 
as  well  as  shadow.  It  is,  in  the  everyday  phrase,  a  genuine 
slice  of  life — a  slice  of  life  cut  a  little  thin,  perhaps — a  slice 
with  which  one  may  justly  quarrel,  as  I  have  suggested,  on  the 
score  of  its  transparency.  But,  whatever  its  shortcomings,  it 
must  be  appreciated  as  a  novel  not  written  for  a  market,  but 
to  reveal  a  man's  original  vision  of  the  world." 

Mr.  Robert  Lynd  in  The  Daily  News. 


"Life  is  a  novel  certainly  of  remarkable  abihty,  if  it 
be  not,  indeed,  the  work  of  literary  genius,  for  even  so  has 
Mr.  Trites  been  hailed  as  the  author  of  *  John  Cave.'  " — West- 
ern Morning  News  (Plymouth). 

"I  have  read  Life  with  the  greatest  pleasure." — Mr. 
Lincoln  Springfield,  Editor  of  London  Opinion,  in  London 
Opinion. 

"  Life  is  as  well-written  as  novel  can  be." — Mr.  C.  E. 
Lawrence  in  The  Book  Monthly. 

"  Alive,  vivid,  and  realistic.  ...  A  remarkable  book." — 
Mr.  H.  B.  Marriott-Watson  in  a  column  review  in  The  Daily 
Chronicle. 

14 


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